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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25018885">The Tourney at Harrenhal</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik'>JosefAik</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Falling Star [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Divergence - Tourney at Harrenhal, Harrenhal, Lyanna Stark is the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Multi, Protective Arthur, Tourney at Harrenhal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:46:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>37,628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25018885</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Tourney of Harrenhal was no mere festival of honour and courage, for, in the shadows of the looming fortress, there were forged secrets that would change the course of history for the Seven Kingdoms. Gathered here are members of all the great houses, but it is a knight of House Dayne whose actions may impact the world the most, and a lowly crannogman of House Reed who helps to bring such change around. In a world of Kings, and princes, Lord and Ladies, two men must explore their being, and accept how this may impact the future of the realm. Housed within these words are these secrets, and the Seven Kingdoms would never be the same again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Dayne &amp; Rhaegar Targaryen, Arthur Dayne/Lyanna Stark, Ashara Dayne/Howland Reed, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Brandon Stark/Catelyn Tully Stark, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Howland Reed &amp; Ned Stark, Jon Connington/Rhaegar Targaryen, Robert Baratheon/Lyanna Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Falling Star [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Kingspyre Tower</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ser Arthur Dayne stood at his post, outside his prince’s door, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword, his eyes fixed on a point in front of him, only moving when he heard sounds coming up the stairs to the left, or down the corridor to the right, but it was never anything more than a servant bustling around the Kingspyre Tower, doing their many duties to House Whent. Arthur tried to stay focused, and not lose himself in thoughts of home, but he could little help it. He had seen the way that Ser Oswell had looked as they rode through Harrenhal’s main gate, and It had made him think of Starfall, of his brother, and the Dornish heat. It was little like here, where the damp rain ruled, where merely walking over the grass would make one’s boots sodden.  </p><p>Harrenhal itself was a crumbling ruin, unlike Starfall, for it was a monstrous, sprawling, gargantuan monument to tyranny and misfortune. He put little faith in the talk of ghosts or curses, though in this place he could see the appeal. It felt cold. It felt cursed.  </p><p>Outside its walls were gathered tents and stages, for the lists, that would begin on the morrow, and where most attendees of Lord Whent’s great tourney would reside, but such meagre accomodation had not been fitting for the king and the Crown Prince. Lord Walter had given up his own bedchambers for Aerys, whilst three of the Lord’s sons had offered theirs to Rhaegar, though he had refused all of them, and had taken Ser Oswell’s old bed as his own.  </p><p>The Whent’s were a cold, hard family, as embodied by their home. Lord Walter was genial enough, but his sons lacked humour, and his fortress was not one for decoration. No tapestries hung upon the walls, no weapons adorned plaques. There was nothing of the sort. Arthur wondered what Lord Whent would think of the dragon skulls that ostentatiously hung in the Red Keep, watching over the Iron Throne, a reminder of the past triumphs of the Targaryen family.  </p><p>There were others here who would share the Whent stance. The Starks of Winterfell were famously stony, and four of them had ridden the long, hard journey from their seat to the festivities, joined by some of their bannermen. Men of the North were stern and as cold as their winters, unlike those of Dorne.  </p><p>The young storm lord had come also, with his patron, Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Vale. Arthur had heard tales of Robert Baratheon’s prowess with a hammer and a lance, but also of the man’s fondness for wine and women. Arryn was a sobering influence on him, but such control would only last so long. How long until he resisted the yoke and defied what Jon wanted for him.  </p><p>The lion of the Rock was nowhere to be seen. Lord Tywin would be stewing in his fortress, no doubt scheming against the king for the perceived slight of Rhaegar refusing his daughter’s hand in marriage. His boy was here, though, ready to don the white of the Kingsguard, or so Arthur heard. He had seen Ser Jaime wield a sword, and had bestowed the knightly title upon him himself. He would be a worthy sworn brother.  </p><p>There were others here, too. The Lord of Roses had arrived not long after the royal party, a young man with a fondness for food and drinking, though with little of the military prowess of Robert, joined with Lords Tarly, Rowan and Redwyne. Prince Oberyn of Dorne was escorting the Princess Elia from King’s Landing, and would arrive that evening. With her would come Arthur’s own sister. Lord Blackwood’s tents had been placed as far from Lord Bracken’s as possible, for fear of the two bitter rivals descending into squabbles, whilst knights of Frey, Haigh, Charlton, Rykker, and Thorne had installed their tents along the shores of the God’s Eye.  </p><p>He was used to the crowded tumult of King’s Landing, the smell of the streets, the sound of vendors selling bowls o’ brown in Flea Bottom, the clanging of hammer on anvil along the Street of Steel, and yet such a gathering here impressed him. Many of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms were here, joined by some of the finest warriors and knights. With any fortune, the spectacle would live up to such an audience.  </p><p>He remembered his first tourney, when he had been just ten and three years. He had unhorsed his brother, as well as Lords Yronwood, Fowler and Qorgyle in the joust at Hellholt, though had lost in the melee to Ser Larence Blackmont. The sense of occasion had gotten to him, and he had dropped his lance, allowing for Blackmont to best him. A year later, he had earned the right to carry Dawn, before travelling to King’s Landing and befriending Prince Rhaegar.  </p><p>He oft wondered what his life would have been like had he not taken the white cloak of the Kingsguard so young, had he not entered into service with Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell. He had been the second son, and his elder brother, Aemon, had always been raised to step up as the new Lord of Starfall. It had always been Arthur’s duty to find his own way, to bring glory and honour to his house in whatever way he could. He would never get to love a woman, however. He would never know that feeling, and so his thoughts of the past were often tinged with regret. Mayhaps he had been too quick to rush into his vows?  </p><p>Prince Lewyn had been wed before being named to the order, though his wife had died of a fever whilst they had still been young loves. Even now he held a paramour, one of Princess Elia’s ladies-in-waiting, though such information was a secret that Arthur would not spill. Lewyn was a good man, and oath rules in Dorne were somewhat more lenient in Dorne than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.  </p><p>Still, he knew that Oswell and Jon Darry had known the touch of a woman before being named to the order, and, in the case of Jon, even whilst wearing the white cloak. Oaths mattered, but few were the men that had the strength to defy such temptations for them.  </p><p>Arthur thought back to the lessons of his father, a bold, good-spirited man, and remembered his words on honour. “Do not undervalue the strength of a good man, Arthur,” he had spoken, “for the willpower and duty of one good, just man can overpower the cheap honour of a hundred contemptible men”. Were such words true? King’s Landing was awash with bad men. There was the spider spymaster, who plagued the king with paranoia, or the old pyromancer, who revelled in the art of destruction. Bad men were easier to come by than good, Arthur thought.  </p><p>Just then, he was disturbed from his thoughts, as he heard his name being called from the other side of the door. He closed his eyes, exhaled and then turned to step inside.  </p><p>The chambers on the other side of the door were as sparsely decorated as the rest of the castle. A simple woven tapestry depicting the Whent sigil hung on one side of the room, though it was old, and the holes upon it suggested that it had been, at some point, food for the moths. A wooden four-poster bed stood opposite Arthur, though there was little in the way of frills, with the simple canopy being a basic black. A small balcony lay on the right side of the room. The windows were thrown open, and a light breeze wafted through the room, though Arthur did not shudder at the coolness of the draft.  </p><p>Prince Rhaegar stood at the balcony, looking out over the tourney fields beyond Harrenhal’s great walls. He had his back to Arthur first, and it was to he who Arthur’s eyes were drawn. </p><p>The Prince had long silvery-blond hair that fell down to the small of his back, when not tied up, as he was usually want to do. His shoulder bones were prominent, and his back well-muscled, for he was topless, so Arthur could see such things. His arms were strong and broad enough to wield a weapon well, but his fingers elegant and nimble enough for him to hold the harp that he loved so much. He wore breeches of black fabric, though they hugged tight to the muscles of his calves, thighs, and arse. His feet were bare.  </p><p>He turned his head slightly, so that Arthur could see half of his face. His indigo eyes always contained a tinge of sadness, though the ghost of a smile played upon his thin lips. His nose was sharp and pointed, which did nothing to dispel from the handsomeness of his features.  </p><p>“Is it not beautiful, Arthur? Such a gathering of lords and knights has not been seen for decades. They have come for glory, and for honour, and some amongst them may find it. Some will be born into fame here, others lost within history. Who such people will be... Well, only the gods can decide that.” </p><p>Rhaegar spoke with an eloquence and a wisdom that defied his relatively young years. Arthur had heard tell that he had been a bookish boy before he picked up the sword and lance, and he could well believe it. There was a beauty to the way that the prince spoke. It was no wonder that so many women fell for his charms.  </p><p>Arthur’s eyes were drawn away from Rhaegar then, as a noise came from behind him. His hand on the hilt of Dawn, he turned, but found only Jon Connington, the young Lord of Griffin’s Roost. He too was barefoot, though he was in less of a state of undress than Rhaegar. He donned crimson breeches, with a doublet of white, and was fumbling at the buttons across his chest. When Rhaegar saw this, he walked to him, and used his long, nimble figures to quickly deal with the problem, finishing with his hands on Connington’s chest for a few moments, before moving away.  </p><p>Connington was a year or two younger than Arthur, not yet twenty years. He looked as different a man from Rhaegar as one could find. His hair was a fiery red, representative of the man’s temper. His face lacked elegance, and was thick, though not ugly. His nose was disjointed, from a time when it had been broken, and his lips were contorted into a scowl. He was a proud man who did not take slights well.  </p><p>“Our brave Lord Connington here, for instance. He will ride in the lists tomorrow. Mayhaps he will beat you with a lance, Arthur, and win the prize for his house. He has improved with his lance, for certain.” </p><p>A sparkle crossed into the prince’s eyes as he spoke, though the sorrow was never replaced. Talking with Rhaegar was always curious, for it was as if he could hold his mind in more than one space. Conversation with him could be sparkling, and yet a part of him would always be thinking of the shadow of Summerhall, and his song of ice and fire.  </p><p>“I look forward to seeing it then.” </p><p>Arthur nodded to Connington, though he was met with little response. He had seen the way that Jon could be around Rhaegar, and yet around others he could be moody and sullen. He was not an easy man to speak with, not as Rhaegar was.  </p><p>“You may leave if you wish, Jon. Find Mace Tyrell and ask him who he intends to support in the lists on the morrow. I will be most interested to hear his answer.” </p><p>Jon nodded curtly, and was about to turn to leave, when Rhaegar stepped forward, and placed a tender kiss upon the hard lord’s lips. Arthur bowed his head and looked away, not wanting to intrude. He did not feel disgust at such an act, for in Dorne there was no shame in such a thing, though he knew such a relationship was more complicated for Connington. When he looked back up, Jon was gone, and Rhaegar eyes were looking wistfully to the door.  </p><p>“I wish others could see him as I do. He is no child, but no statue, either, not when we are alone. It is a shame that he lives in fear of such judgement that he hides it behind such a veneer.” </p><p>Arthur knew not how to answer that, and he suspected that Rhaegar was not searching for reassurances. Jon was right to worry, for the feelings that held were abhorrent to their Faith of the Seven, but did that mean they were wrong? He knew that his brother held a male paramour, as well as a wife. He did not wish to judge people for such things, yet there would be those that would. That much was certain.  </p><p>“Did you speak with Oswell this morn?” </p><p>Rhaegar had moved back towards the balcony, placing his hands upon the stone parapet. Arthur stood beside him, and followed his eyes out onto the tourney yards. He saw the bustle of the courtyard below them, as Lord Whent’s men prepared for the evening’s festivities. He watched as a small boat pulled up upon the shore of the God’s Eye, no doubt a fisherman, bringing his day’s haul in to be cooked for the evening. In the distance, he saw a small party of horseriders wind their way up the Kingsroad towards the castle.  </p><p>“I did, Rhaegar. He says that he spoke with Lord Royce yesterday eve. Apparently Yohn says that he will be supporting himself in the lists, but that, should he fail, he will turn his support towards you.” </p><p>Rhaegar nodded his head gently, though the news changed little upon his face. There was still a morose, wistful look to his face.  </p><p>“He can join Lords Rykker, Thorne, and Redwyne in showing such sentiments. They are all good men, but they are not the men that we need. We still have no word from Lords Arryn, or Tyrell, or Tully. These are the men that we need.” </p><p>A sigh escaped Rhaegar’s lips, as the crown prince expressed a rare show of exasperation.  </p><p>“To march without these men would be folly. We must have them. Lewyn assures me that I can rely on his nephew, but Doran sends me no word. With luck, it will come with his brother. Elia tells me that Oberyn is a good man, even if his reputation suggests otherwise. I will look forward to meeting him.” </p><p>Arthur had heard stories of Oberyn Martell from both Lewyn and Elia, but also from travellers that spoke of his cunning and wit. He had killed Lord Yronwood with a poisoned spear, it was said. Such tactics were beneath a man of honour, though things had always been different in Dorne. It had been there ability to outthink their enemy that had saved them from the flames of the dragon, where every other great house had been brought to their knees. Even if the Martells could be relied upon, they brought few men. Rhaegar needed the support of the Vale, the Riverlands and the North.  </p><p>“Tell me, Arthur. Do you ever think that, by supporting me and my ambitions, you break your oaths sworn to my father? You do the right thing for the realm, but not for your king.” </p><p>In truth, Arthur had thought on it often, and he knew that other members of the Kingsguard thought the same thing. Of their order, Rhaegar was closest with he and Oswell. Ser Harlan Grandison had been Aerys’ man, knowing the king from his days as a prince, though he had recently gone to sleep and never awoke, his years finally catching up and claiming him. Jon Darry and Barristan Selmy held themselves rigidly to their oaths to Aerys, and would not dare to betray his trust. Prince Lewyn was an older man, scarred by the past, and oft insulted by Aerys. Such was his reason for supporting Rhaegar.  </p><p>“You are my king, Rhaegar. I may be sworn to Aerys as a brother of the Kingsguard, but I am sworn to the realm as a knight. You are what is best for them. If it is my honour that must be sacrificed for such a thing then so be it. I will give it gladly.” </p><p>Rhaegar turned his head to look at Arthur then, a look of genuine joy within his sparkling eyes.  </p><p>“We will make a poet of you yet, my friend. That was well spoken.” </p><p>He laughed at that, an under-stated chuckle, and Rhaegar clapped him on the back. The two friends stood there for a few moments, all thoughts of oaths and princes and plots forgotten. That was part of what Arthur liked about Rhaegar. He was not full of princely notions of power and authority. He was just another person. He aspired to sit the Iron Throne, but so that he could mend the problems of the kingdoms, brought by his forebears. It was not out of a personal ambition, but an ambition to make the world a better place.  </p><p>“Now, my friend, I believe that the procession approaching is that of my dear wife, and I must go greet her. Accompany me, if you will.” </p><p>Arthur bowed his head, and followed the prince as he strode through the halls of Harrenhal. Rhaegar moved with a purpose, his steps deliberate and swift. Arthur walked behind him, his hand on his hilt, and his eyes trained on any potential threat that may emerge. The corridors were empty enough, but the courtyard outside was swarmed with gathered folks, both highborn and otherwise. A channel was cut through the crowds as Prince Rhaegar moved forward, with men and women stepping back to allow him to pass.  </p><p>Arthur spotted some important people littered around the gathering. The eldest of the four Starks stood with the Storm Lord, with both holding tankards of ale. Lords Redwyne and Rowan stood near to them, whilst Richard Lonmouth watched on from the battlements, with Jon Connington joining him after a few moments. The eyes of the Seven Kingdoms were watching on.  </p><p>The horses had already rode through the gate by the time Rhaegar reached them. Elia sat astride a sandy coloured mare, wearing mustard coloured riding garb. Rhaegar stepped forward, bowing slightly before her, as she smiled weakly down at him. He proffered her his hand, and she took it, as he helped her down from her steed.  </p><p>Behind her came a man, a fierce look upon his face. He wore his black hair long, swept back and down to his shoulders. There was an intensity to his eyes that Arthur had seen in few men before, a driving fire, not of hatred, but just of life. This was a man who would live his life as he chose, not caring what others around him thought of it. He dismounted with little help, and strode to stand behind his sister, the Princess, for this man was Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne.  </p><p>Where Oberyn was intense and passioned, Elia was demure and reasoned. She was fair to look upon, even if she was no great beauty, with kindness to her eyes, and a fair smile, one that she wore often when she was with her husband, for the two of them loved each other deeply. Elia knew the truth of Rhaegar, and she did not care.  </p><p>“I hope your journey has been a good one, wife of mine. How is Lady Stokeworth?” </p><p>“Very sick, though she says that if she survives the summer then she will have lived a good life, and she wishes for you to visit her soon.” </p><p>Elia turned to him then, and offered him her hand. He kissed it gently, lowering his lips to her knuckles, as she was not a tall woman.  </p><p>“I trust you have been taking good care of my husband, Arthur. We both know how reckless he can be, and I would have no harm come to him.” </p><p>“Nor would I. He has been well looked after, I can assure you, Princess.” </p><p>Elia bowed her head, a twinkle in her eye. She knew how much Arthur cared for Rhaegar. She knew that he would never allow for harm to come his way, not if he could prevent it. Many in the Seven Kingdoms thought her to be passive and quiet, weak-willed enough to serve the Prince, but he knew different. Elia was Dornish, and it was hard to remove the spirit from a Dornish woman. She just hid it well, behind the face that she had need to use when at court in King’s Landing. They had all heard of the lust that Rhaegar’s father had held for the spirited Joanna Lannister, and Elia did not desire for such attentions to pass onto her. Besides, such an act allowed for her to go underestimated by the game players that surrounded the king.  </p><p>“Take me to our chambers, husband. I have news that I wish to share with you. I think I can take my husband from here, Arthur. I thank you for your service.” </p><p>She led Rhaegar away, back into the Kingspyre Tower, her hands placed upon her belly, as she whispered words into the prince’s ears. Soon they were gone from sight, and the courtyard returned to its busy state. The quaffing contests and bawdy songs restarted to his right, whilst a knight of House Haigh tried to negotiate a better price with the castle smithy. People still gave him a wide berth, not out of fear but respect.  </p><p>He sighed, turning away from the great towers of Harrenhal, and walking back through the gates, his mind turning to thoughts of war and duty, such reflections having become commonplace for him over the last few months, as his white cloak trailed through the dirt behind him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Lion in White</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A young knight, Ser Jaime Lannister, awaits induction into the prestigious order of the Kingsguard.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The golden lion stood within his small, narrow chambers within the walls of Harrenhal, as bare as the day he had been born, looking at his lithe, lean form in the mirror. The muscles upon his chest rippled in a cascading fashion, down towards his waist, whilst his arms were hard and strong, though not so much that he sacrificed his agility for pure strength. At his crotch hung his member, long but thin, surrounded by soft, springy blond hairs. It was his face that his eyes were trained on, however. His cheekbones were high, his eyes a flashing green, and his lips thin. He admired his own beauty as much as anything else, but he also pictured himself donned in the white cloak that he would soon be given.  He turned, and looked upon his back. His shoulder blades stood out prominently, strong, as with the rest of him, and his arse was pert and tight.  </p><p>It was no wonder that the womenfolk swooned when he walked by, or that minstrels already sang their songs about his great beauty. It was a shame for him to sacrifice such worldly pleasures, but to serve amongst the Kingsguard order was the finest honour a knight could desire. He would bring credit both to himself and to his family, even if his father secretly decried him for his choice.  </p><p>He sat himself down on the scratchy mattress, and looked towards the ceiling. He had dreamed of joining the order truly ever since he had seen Ser Arthur Dayne clash with the Smiling Knight, a few months before, though he had oft thought of the possibility. His father had always wanted him to take control of the Rock, but Jaime had never thought such a position would suit him. It was his twin, Cersei, who enjoyed the game that must be played, not he. The life of a sworn and anointed knight was enough for him. He would get his fair share of the glory of battle and service, and would be remembered for generations, like Ryam Redwyne or Addison Hill before him.  </p><p>It was not just of duty that he dreamed, but that glory, too. Tomorrow would be the lists, when he would be able to test his lance against the finest jousters of the realm. The crown prince himself was more than adept on horseback, though Sers Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower would pose stern competition. Yohn Royce was a strong hand, though a poor rider, and Oswell Whent was near the opposite. The knights of House Whent, aside for Oswell, would pose little threat, though others had gathered from across the realm. It would be a good competition.  </p><p>He had seen the arrival of the Dornish Princess a few hours before, joined by her dark-hearted brother. A part of him wondered if they shared the same love that he held for his own sister. Maybe such a thing was more acceptable in Dorne. The way the girl had looked at Rhaegar, however... That was the way that he looked at Cersei. It was the truest of loves, that need to be around the person that you cared for the most.  </p><p>Could he continue to love her after he had sworn his vows? He would be sworn to celibacy, though such a thing was merely a formality. He had no doubt that tales of such abstinence were hyperbolic, for what man could pay attention to his duty when he couldn’t satiate the need of either his cock or his heart? </p><p>He flexed his swordhand slightly as he thought, missing the weight of steel, which made him realise that he must dress. Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, was coming to speak with him before the ceremony, and greeting him in his bareness would do little good for Jaime’s hopes of endearing himself to one of the realm’s finest knights.  </p><p>He would don the white armour od the Kingsguard for his ceremony, though it was too soon for that now. Instead, he eschewed the Lannister coloured clothes, preferring a white jerkin, and grey breeches, which clasped tightly around his calves and arse, embracing his form. He looked at himself in the mirror again, running his fingers through his hair, giving it the wave that he preferred. His locks were luscious and golden, a constant reminder of his family, and shone richer than even the mines of the Rock. It was said that his father, Lord Tywin, shat gold. If that was true then Jaime wore it as a crown upon his head. </p><p>There were few men in the Kingdoms who would not recognise him as a Lannister, for he had the look of the lion to him. They were traits that he shared with his sister, less so his younger brother. They would mark him for life, though he held no shame from his name. It was one that he had cause to love.  </p><p>A few quick blows from the other side of the door caused thudding echoes to resound around his chambers. On the other side he found the hulking presence of Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.  </p><p>Jaime had seen many large men in his time, and Hightower stood shorter than some of them, though taller than most. He had shoulders as broad as an oxen, and arms the size of oaks. His face bore a fearsome scowl, his nostrils flared, and his eyes narrow and intense, glaring down at Jaime. He wasn’t sure if the Lord Commander was as furious as he looked, or whether that was just the way his face naturally fell. </p><p>He walked with a stern precision, every step seeming determined and thought through. His eyes narrowed even further as he looked around Jaime’s quarters. He gazed at the mirror for a few moments, before curtly turning his back on it, focusing his gaze on Jaime instead. That did little to aid the anger in his expression.  </p><p>“I had heard tell of the pampered lion of Casterly Rock who is soon to join our order, though you exceed all such stories. You will have no such mirror within your Kingsguard cell, and I expect better cleanliness from a sworn brother.” </p><p>Gerold indicated towards the piles of worn clothes laid across the floor, and the dishevelled state of Jaime’s bedsheets, distain evident in his eyes. This was a man who expected the best from those under his command, who accepted nothing less than greatness. Jaime had heard stories about the unflinchingly stubborn White Bull, but, as Jaime had for him, he exceeded those tales with aplomb. In this moment he did not carry a sword, but Jaime could imagine that the sight of this man bearing down upon you with one would like as not make you shit your breeches three times over.  </p><p>“Arthur speaks highly of your ability, that is true enough. I have yet to see it for myself, but I know he does not serve such praise lightly. He saw you fight the Kingswood Brotherhood, and match swords with the Smiling Knight. I am not easily impressed. You will need to do more than spar with some bandits to convince me of your worth.” </p><p>The Lord Commander was a blunt man, his words cutting through Jaime’s defences like a barrage of blades. Not even the thought that Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning himself, had praised his skill was enough of a distraction. Gerold reminded him of his father. He was demanding and harsh, determine to push you to achieve. The bond of brotherhood that the Kingsguard knights shared was legendary, though if this man was the glue that bound them... Mayhaps he was more amicable underneath the surface.  </p><p>“If we were to match sword-” </p><p>His sentiment was cut off by a single look from the seasoned knight, a glare that would scare even the dead. There was a quiet fire to his eyes. It was not hate, nor was it fury or anger, but more a steely determination. Jaime wasn’t quite sure what drove the White Bull of the Kingsguard, but he suspected he did not want to find out so soon.  </p><p>“If we were to match sword then I would leave you dead in the dirt, your guts spilling out of your chest.” </p><p>He spoke the words in such a matter-of-fact tone that Jaime knew they were not a threat, but a truth. It wasn’t that this man was merciless, but he did not suffer fools. Jaime decided he was not anxious to interject again, which Gerold noted with a curt nod.  </p><p>“Jon Darry was closest with your predecessor, and he has offered to escort you before the King. You will pass Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan, then Prince Lewyn and Ser Arthur, then kneel before me, the King and the Crown Prince. There, you shall be asked to speak your vows. Upon doing so then I, with the King’s blessing, shall present you with your white cloak, despite the ill feeling that I hold for doing so.” </p><p>Ser Gerold shot him another glare. Jaime had thought their effect would wane, but such was not the case.  </p><p>“I have met your ilk before. Knights of the summer who wish to play at glory and war, but when battle comes to their gate they flee, hiding in their castles rather than dying by the sword. Prove me wrong, Lannister.” </p><p>Such words were all that Hightower had for him, clearly, as the Lord Commander strode out of Jaime’s chambers then, leaving him to reflect on the words that had been spoken between them, but mostly by the elder knight.  </p><p>He knew some of Gerold’s past, what had formed him into this man, though much of it had been shrouded in mystery. He was a survivor of the Tragedy at Summerhall, carrying the pregnant princess out through the flames, whilst she was wracked by the pains of birth. He had tried to tear the widow of the dragonfly prince from her grief, though had failed. He had commanded the King’s armies on the Stepstones, slaying the Lord of Battles in a single blow. This was a man with ghosts, of both successes and failures. Maybe it was understandable for him to look down on Jaime, though he would prove him wrong.  </p><p>He called him a knight of summer, but when war came it would be Jaime who led on the front lines, fighting for his king and his brothers. He would be no craven, hiding behind the skirts of a woman. He would be no Terrence Toyne, who bedded the king’s wife, nor Gyles Belgrave, who slipped poison into his king’s wine goblet. He was not those men.  </p><p>It was not a long wait for the ceremonies to begin. A gangly squire named Raymun Darry came to affix his plate armour. The boy was quiet, which Jaime appreciated, and had nimble fingers and the beginnings of muscle. He told Jaime that he was Ser Jonothor’s younger brother, and would squire for the Kingsguard knight during the lists. Jaime wished him luck, though in truth he did not care for how well Raymun served. He didn’t know the boy.  </p><p>When all that was done, Jaime made his way down from his cell in the Widow’s Tower, and found Ser Jonothor waiting at a small gate that led out onto one of Harrenhal’s smaller courtyards.  </p><p>Jonothor was a solid man, well-built and stocky, though he lacked height. He had beady, black eyes, and a pockmarked face. Whilst not hideous, Jaime did suspect that the man had lost little when he had sworn an oath of celibacy. He had lank, black hair, which fell to his shoulders, swept back on the top to reveal a widow’s peak, and it had grown greasy from being underwashed. He was everything that Jaime was not. Still, not all men could be born handsome, though at least some of Jonothor’s appearance reflected that the man had lived a hard life, which was like as not why he scowled when he gazed upon Jaime.  </p><p>“You’re late, Lannister. It is unwise to keep the King waiting.” </p><p>Jaime’s father had told him tales of Aerys’ madness and fiery temper, and if such stories were true then Jonothor was not exaggerating in his warning.  </p><p>“It was your brother who dressed me. Have the king blame him.” </p><p>Jonothor’s scowl managed to deepen. Maybe he took criticism of his kin to heart. Jaime had not expected that.  </p><p>“It is a poor knight who blames his squire, an even poorer one who blames someone else’s.” </p><p>Such words of wisdom were, as had been the case with Ser Gerold, spoken with a curt tone, as if the Darry man believed him to be teaching Jaime, though thought that such teachings were not worth his time. He decided it was best not to question his soon-to-be brother’s words, and instead bowed his head, in some form of deference.  </p><p>In that moment, he remembered two lessons from his father. The first was that the lion does not care for the opinions of the sheep. Was Ser Jonothor a sheep in that sense? He was no extraordinary knight, or powerful lord, just a man. Jaime would like as not be able to lay him on his arse nine fights out of ten. Still, the second lesson rang true also, that it was a fool that showed nothing but defiance, when sometimes a more cultured touch is required. Such had never been Jaime’s strength, as he was a swordsman before all else, and yet in this moment he saw the wisdom in those words.  </p><p>“You should avoid meeting the king’s eyes. Bow your head when you say your vows. You do know your vows, correct?” </p><p>“I would think so.” </p><p>He tried to sound relaxed about it all, but he had spent sleepless hours the last few nights remembering exactly what he had to say. It was a big occasion, and the eyes of some of the realm’s finest swords would be upon him. There was no room for error.  </p><p>“Ser Rolland Darklyn was the youngest Kingsguard knight before you. He lasted less than one hour. Let us see whether you can last longer, Lannister.” </p><p>With those words, Jonothor turned, and pushed open the small, wooden gate, revealing the setting for Jaime’s proudest moments.  </p><p>It was a small, secluded courtyard, neighbouring the Harrenhal Godswood, and stood beneath two of the castle's mighty towers. Atop the walls stood a few onlookers, some of them nobles, but it was not to them that Jaime turned his eyes. Stood at the fire side of the courtyard was a large tent structure, open-faced, with a seat of ancient oak in the centre, which bore the figure of the King, Aerys Targaryen.  </p><p>Stood by his side were two men. The most striking of them was the Crown Prince, whom Jaime recognised from his visit to Casterly Rock, dressed in his own battle armour, though he wore no helmet to hide his face. A gentle smile played upon his lips. The second man was another warrior, though less beautiful than he prince. He had short-cut black hair, and wore a scowl instead of a smile. The yellow jerkin he wore was marked with bats, indicating that he was Walter Whent, the Lord of this castle.  </p><p>Flanking the approach to the king were the knights of his Kingsguard, as Gerold Hightower had said they would be. First were Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Barristan Selmy. Whent bore a similar face to his brother, Lord Walter, though there looked to be more of a playful smirk to him. Barristan was a sombre knight, experience covering his face, and the starts of wrinkles appearing upon his brow, though Jaime knew him for what he was. That man was a legendary sword.  </p><p>As they walked, Jaime took in the next two of his new brotherhood. Prince Lewyn Martell stood to his right. His once-black hair had gone grey, but his olive skin saw him stand out, and his eyes were black and darting. It was to Arthur Dayne that Jaime truly looked. The Sword of the Morning gave him a slight nod, a smile of fondness telling Jaime that he was glad for him. The two had fought side by side in the Kingswood, and it had been Arthur who had bestowed Jaime the title of knight. He was by far the most handsome of the Kingsguard, his silvery locks worn long, and his lilac eyes displayed charisma that masked his ability with a sword. Maybe as their brother he would be so lucky to see a fight between Dayne and Selmy, the two finest swordsmen of their age, even if it was an age that was starting to pass.  </p><p>Then his eyes turned upon the King. Aerys Targaryen was a hideous sight to behold. Beneath his crown, sat a tangled mess of matted, damp hair, which fell well beneath his shoulders. His face was sallow and shrivelled, his eyes sunken, purple bags worn underneath them. He wore robes of black, a golden dragon pendant hanging around his neck, a badge of his office, a reminder of who sat the Iron Throne. His hands were exposed, and Jaime could see the infamous scabs that were markings of the throne on which he sat, and the fingernails, which extended five inches off each of his digits. The smell of piss wafted over to Jaime from where the king sat. His father had once told him that Aerys was so paranoid that he refused to use the privy alone, for fear of being assassinated, and so preferred to piss himself whilst holding court. Jaime didn’t want to know what the king did when he needed a shit.  </p><p>“You come at last, then. Jaime Lannister, son of Tywin Lannister...” </p><p>Aerys spoke his father’s name with a venom, his eyes narrowing as they focused upon him.  </p><p>“You have your father’s looks more than your mother’s; I think. Let us hope you have her way with a weapon, too.” </p><p>Aerys scowled when his joke was met with no response. There were few here who wished to earn the ire of Lord Tywin, even if it meant disappointing the king. Besides, it was Prince Rhaegar who truly held the power in King’s Landing, even if he did it from Dragonstone.  </p><p>“Kneel then, boy. Say your vows to me.” </p><p>There was something eager and urgent about the way the king spoke, as if he was anxious to have it done, so that Jaime could not change his mind at the last second. Still, Jaime did as he was instructed, and bent his knee before the king. He intoned his vows, remembering them by writ.  </p><p>“I, Jaime of the House Lannister, do hereby swear my name, my sword, and my life to my King, Aerys Targaryen, the second of his name, for my whole life, until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children. I shall wear no crown, nor hold any titles, save for that of a knight of the Kingsguard. I shall live and die at my post. I am the shield that guards the king, the sword who fights his wars, the white cloak who shall stand before any man. These are my vows. I pledge my life, and my honour, to the Iron Throne, for this day, and all the days to come.” </p><p>His words were met by silence, and then a spattering of applause from the onlookers above. It was Gerold Hightower who stepped forward next, Ser Jonothor by his side, a white cloak draped across his arms.  </p><p>“And I, Ser Gerold of the House Hightower, accept your oaths in the name of our king, brother.” </p><p>Hightower somehow looked less fierce and formidable now, like he had softened towards Jaime in the few hours it had been since they last spoke, though he suspected it was something different. All these knights had done as he had, maybe to different kings, but maybe Hightower realised that the enormity of what he had just done may now be dawning on Jaime. They were brothers now, not bound by blood, but by experience and words.  </p><p>“Wear this white cloak with pride, but wear it well, also. Remember your vows, and remember your duty. Do this, and our king will be protected.” </p><p>Jonothor proffered the cloak to Gerold, who took it, and affixed it around Jaime’s neck, pinning it together with a small, white shield pendant. Jaime had not seen it before, but all the Kingsguard knights wore it as such. It was their own badge of office.  </p><p>“A touching moment, Lord Commander,” </p><p>The three men turned their attention back to the king, who had risen from his seated position, to stand before the oak throne. Jaime could see a small puddle of piss pooling at the man’s feet.  </p><p>“And now for our new knight’s first orders. You shall take a horse this night, and ride back to my city, where you shall protect my wife and my son, before tonight’s feasts have begun. There will be no glory for you or your father in the lists tomorrow.” </p><p>Jaime was left dumbfounded by the statement. Could it be that the king held that much spite for him and his family? Why ask him to join the order in the first place if he would be met with such enmity upon his acceptance? He had wanted to prove himself to his new brothers, to show his talents and his skill, and yet that was being robbed from him.  </p><p>“Your grace, allow me to return to the city to look after Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys.” </p><p>It was the Lord Commander who stepped forward before the king, though Jaime did not know for why.  </p><p>“I am a tired and done knight, and my skill with a lance has waned. Allow the young to celebrate their skill, and for me to live my life in service.” </p><p>The King did not even take a moment to consider such a proposition.  </p><p>“Do you think it your place to question me, Hightower? I am the king. You had best stand yourself down, or else I will have need to find another new sword to join my order.” </p><p>Hightower acquiesced promptly, and gave Jaime no more look. The king stormed away, followed by the crown prince, whilst Walter went to speak with Oswell. Prince Lewyn joined Rhaegar in following Aerys, and Jaime was left alone, readying himself for the long ride back to King’s Landing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Squires and Starks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The arrival of a strange new character at the Tourney of Harrenhal is met with both anger and acceptance.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The choppy waters of the God’s Eye rose up time and time again against the hull of the Crannogman’s row boat, and yet he continuously dug his oars through the spray and the cresting waves, pulling himself further from the Isle of Faces, and closer to the looming darkness of Harrenhal castle. Every pull was an effort, for the men of the Neck were not built large, and strong like the rest of the North. They were wiry and wily, short enough to slip by unseen, and relied on wits and cunning to defeat their enemies and survive their surroundings. They may have been sworn to Winterfell, but they were not of the North.  </p>
<p>The waters of the God’s Eye were usually placid and calm, yet today the gods had given him winds to contend with, and with them came waves. The closer he got to the shoreline, the rougher the obstacles became. Twice he was near thrown from his vessel, fated to fall forlornly into the watery depths beneath him, yet today was not the day he was to die. He knew that, and so he rowed on, past the peak of the waves, and past the peak of the winds.  </p>
<p>As the two started to die down, the Crannogman was gifted with the chance to view where he had come from. Behind him, the Isle of Face was a mere speck, nearly hidden from view by the shimmering waters of the lake. He could just about make out the shoreline, where dappled willow stood, their branches hanging out over the water. Weirwoods were found there, too, of course, though he could see none from so far away. Mayhaps the Children still watched for him, and it was they who had protected him upon his journey. He held up a solitary hand, a show of thanks, just in case someone had been watching, before he turned back to look onwards.  </p>
<p>Naturally, it was the castle itself which drew most of the Crannogman’s attention. Harrenhal was a twisted metropolis of burned rock, fused with flames and smoke, merged into a melted monument to the dragon’s wrath. Its towers stood tall, contorted and sloping where the damage had been done near to three hundred years before. By all rights, the place would be abandoned, a testament to the past, but with Harrenhal came power, and men were drawn to such a place. This had been the home of Kings once. Maybe it would be once again.  </p>
<p>His eyes were next turned to the tourneyfields themselves, dressed in pomp and pageantry. Smallfolk bustled around the place, answering the whims of the highborn lordlings and ladies as quickly as could be. Banners hung limply over different coloured pavilions, occasionally being picked up in the breeze and wafting gently, though the Crannogman could not say for whom they stood.  </p>
<p>He had been taught the sigils of the North, to be sure, but beyond that he did not know. He recognised the moose of Hornwood drooped over a tent of orange, and the black of bear of Mormont, dancing in a gentle gust, above a large, green pavilion. Amidst the other gathered Northern houses, he also spied Dustin, Ryswell, Glover, Wull and Cassel.  </p>
<p>He tried to remember what his father had taught him of the other Northern houses. The Wulls were of the mountains to the far north, different from the rest, though fiercely loyal to the wolves. Ryswell and Dustin were old rivals from the west, with the Dustins being descended from the old Barrow Kings. The Glovers ruled the Wolfswood, though had never held titles before the Starks took the lands from the old Blackwood kings. The Cassels held no lands even now. They were the descendants of a Stark bastard, which was rare enough in itself, though were well trusted by the Lords of the North.  </p>
<p>The other sigils that he saw meant little to him. There was a purple unicorn prancing on a white field, and a golden rose dueled with a red huntsman above a glorious green pavilion. These southron sigils meant little to him, until his eyes settled on another that he was all too familiar with.  </p>
<p>The silver towers stood proud over their azure field, a whole village of tents and pavilions sat underneath them, centred around one, grand canvas monstrosity. People moved in and out of them, dressed in the deep blue and silver of the Freys of the Crossing, bitter enemies of the men of the Neck.  </p>
<p>He was so distracted by such a sight that he did not realise how close to the shore he had come, being thrown slightly forward as his boat ran ashore. He steadied his feet, and cursed gently under his breath. Why did it have to be here, in front of these tents?  </p>
<p>He jumped out of the boat, raising his pine-green hood to try and hide his features, before heading up the incline and away from the waters, not even affording one last look for where he had come from. The past was the past, his father had always told him when he had been small, it is the future that matters most, and those of the green-blood were gifted with visions of it. How they chose to use that gifted knowledge... Well, that was showed a man from a boy. </p>
<p>His father had also taught him of the great rivalry between the men of the Neck and the southrons of the Crossing. Those born under the twin towers of Frey held hate in their hearts for the Crannogmen, due to a centuries old dispute between a long-dead Lord Frey an errant Crannogman, who murdered the man’s wife. That was what the Freys told their lordling spawn at any rate. He had been told a very different story.  </p>
<p>As the story went, a simple Crannogman, blessed with the blood of the Marsh Kings and the gift of the greensight, resided with his brother, a lord. Chafing under the rule of his brother, the crannogman took his wife and four daughters south, out of the Neck and into the lands beyond, upon a pilgrimage to the Green Isle. On their way they stayed at an inn, where the crannogman was approached by a bawdy, busty woman, who sought the pleasures held within his breeches. Rejecting her lustful advances, the crannogman returned to his wife, who was with child, and slept beside her.  </p>
<p>The following day, he woke up to find armed men at the inn. It transpired that the woman had been Alys Charlton, the wife of Lord Theo Frey, or Theo the Fast as they called him. His father had always told him that was because he was always the first to draw his sword, a statement that was accompanied by a wry smile and a sly wink. Lord Theo’s men seized the Crannogman and his family, and took them before Lady Charlton, who was a wicked and vengeful woman. It was by her decree that the crannogman’s wife and daughters were to be hung until they were dead, and that the man was forced to watch. He saw his eldest daughter, a girl of five and ten years, brutally raped before she was strung up. His wife clawed at her face as the air was choked from her body, red gashes running down her skin, before she fell limp, her hands resting beside the slight bump of her belly. </p>
<p>The crannogman had finished his pilgrimage, driven by a raging grief, hopeful that the Green Men would share their wisdom and help him overcome the barriers of death. Instead, they gave him a herb, which they told him to feed to Lady Charlton before the moon’s cycle was done, and that then justice would be served.  </p>
<p>So the crannogman travelled to the Twins, the seat of House Frey, where he spied Lady Frey speaking secretively with one of the stableboys, a youth with sandy hair and a weak, weaselly chin. Once she was done, he approached her, though there was no recognition in her eyes, for he wore southron clothes and had cropped his hair short. Seducing her was no issue, drawing her away to her private chambers. Before they conjoined, he slipped the herb into her wine goblet, watching as she quaffed the liquid eagerly. Within moments she clutched at her throat, the air vanishing from her lungs as the life choked away from her. As she lay there, her body quickly growing cold, he did as the Green Men had told him, tearing her wedding band from her finger, before fleeing the castle.  </p>
<p>Lord Frey’s men followed him south for two days, though he was wily enough to give them the slip within the woods of the Trident. He took the band to the place where his wife and daughters had been so cruelly taken from him. Their bodies had not been buried, instead left to feed the crows. He could not look upon them, his eyes haunted by their dying eyes, silently screaming for him to save them, though he could not. He placed the band beneath his wife, reaching out for her cold, rotting hand as he did, though he did not touch it, before leaving.  </p>
<p>He returned on the eve, to the sound of soft screams, not of pain, but of sadness, the screams of a child, who did not understand where they were. Laying upon the cold ground, underneath the hanging body of his wife, was a bawling babe, clad in a green cloth. He knew instantly that it was the boy that his wife had been carrying, brought to him by the Old Gods of the weirwoods, and so he took it from that place, back to the marshy lands of the Neck, where he raised it in the ways of the crannogs, where one day he would reign as Lord Jyan Reed, who they called the ill-born.  </p>
<p>Such was the story of the enmity between Houses Frey and Reed, though he suspected certain parts had been embellished. The hatred between both bloodlines had not died, so he desired little to be seen by those who bore that badge, for he was a conspicuous sight.  </p>
<p>The smells of the tourneyfields wafted over him as he strode, lost in his thoughts. The cries of the piesellers, who were, on occasion, met by the clink of coppers, were joined by southron knights playing at quintain. The men of the crannogs did not learn to ride at horse, so he stopped to watch these men for a few moments. The way they spurred on their horses was near majestic, though would prove ineffective within the Neck. He spotted two Frey knights with lance in hand, so he hid his face.  </p>
<p>The first of them was a brutishly large man, with a square face and jaw, and bulging muscles beneath his mail. The second was a thinner man, slight and scrawny, perched upon his steed with some discomfort. He wore a thin beard, the shape of a rat’s tail, upon his weak, Frey chin. The first of the two rode well, strong of hand and lance, whilst the second was no keen eye on the joust. Having watched them, the Crannogman made to move on.  </p>
<p>“I recognise those greens and browns. Show us your webbed feet, frog boy.” </p>
<p>His steps away were the halted by the abrupt interjection of another. Underneath his hood, he grimaced slightly, running his top lip across the tips of his bottom teeth. Just from the tone of speech he could tell that this was some Southron squire. He sounded of an age with the Crannogman, but his voice was gruffer, and the way he said us suggested that he had friends. That meant running was ruled out of the question. He would have to turn.  </p>
<p>So turn he did, and he was confronted with three boys, each big and burly, each dressed in the finery of nobility. The boy on the left wore white, a hanged man emblazoned upon his chest. The second wore a mud-brown jerkin, with a yellow band stretching from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist. It was the boy in the middle who drew the eye, however.  </p>
<p>He was near six foot, with a thick build and pig eyes and nose. The way he spoke was not uneducated, but there was anger behind it. His hair was a muss of brown, and his cheeks were dotted with freckles and spots.  </p>
<p>“I heard tales of the frog-devils, ‘bout how they fuck their trees and poison their children. That true, frog boy?” </p>
<p>It was the middle boy talking. He wore the azure blue and squalid silver of the Twins, so he must have been one of Old Lord Frey’s brood. The Crannogman gave him no answer, and so the boy’s nostrils flared.  </p>
<p>“You had best answer me. I’m Willamen Frey, and my father is Lord of the Twins. Answer me, or I will tell him to burn down your precious forests, frog boy.” </p>
<p>It was an empty threat. He had heard stories of the disregard with which Walder treated his brood. He would not go to war over the whims of one whiny child.  </p>
<p>“It is not our children who taste our poison, southron. Plenty of your kin have held that pleasure.” </p>
<p>His response elicited another nostril flare from the other boy, and a muffled growl, as he bared his teeth, which were knocked out-of-place. </p>
<p>“You’ll regret saying that, frog fucker. Get his arms, Harys. Meryn, you get his legs. I get the face.” </p>
<p>The three boys rushed forward then, catching him off-guard. He stumbled backwards, landing roughly on his arse, the impact putting him in something of a daze. The boy with the hanged man was the quickest of the three, and was on him in a flash, grabbing at his breeches, whilst the one clad in brown pinned his hands to the hard earth. Willamen stood over him, laughing, a mean look within his eyes.  </p>
<p>“Not so tough without your forests to hide away in, are you? Maybe I’ll just cut you up and leave your body for your lizard lions, or send your head back to Greywater Watch.” </p>
<p>“You will do no such thing. That’s my father’s man you’re kicking.” </p>
<p>The Crannogman couldn’t see who had spoken, but the voice was that of a girl who was near womanhood, but not quite there. The voice was sharp and hardened, yet full of joy and life. She was of the North, that was clear enough, though she was no crannogman. Willamen turned away from him, and towards the speaker.  </p>
<p>“This is none of your business, girl. Run off to your dresses, or else I will smack you as well as the frog fucker.” </p>
<p>“I invite you to try, piggy, though I think you will be too slow to catch me.” </p>
<p>Something about her choice of words set Willamen into a rage, and he charged away from him, his prone prey, towards where the girl’s voice came from. He heard the sound of an open hand striking bare flesh, and felt the grip of the other boy’s lessen upon him, so he seized the chance to wrestle away from them, though they put up little resistance. Instead, the boy in brown charged after Willamen, whilst the other hung back slightly.  </p>
<p>The Crannogman looked for the girl, and saw her, laughing and joyful, as she dodged underneath Willamen’s slow strikes. He called out in warning as the other boy charged towards her, though he seemed to stumble as he did, falling flat on his face at her feet. From that point, his eyes were transfixed upon her, dancing around the larger boy. The way she smiled was infectious, and he felt a grin work its way onto his face. Eventually, Willamen tired, and toppled to his knees in front of her. She leaned down, so their eyes were no more than a few inches apart.  </p>
<p>“You done already? My brother would be able to go on twice as long as you. I suppose they raise them less strong outside the North.” </p>
<p>As the girl spoke of her brother, a boy stepped out from behind a tent. He looked akin to her, with long, dark hair, a long face, and piercing grey eyes. He was no older than four and ten years, for sure. The Crannogman realised then that it must have been this boy who tripped the charging boy in brown. He looked around, and noticed that the one of the hanged man had disappeared, vanishing into the crowds of the tourney.  </p>
<p>“Fuck you, bitch. I’ll tell my master-” </p>
<p>“Tell him what? How you got your arse handed to you by an unarmed girl? A squire’s life is not for you, piggy. Run along to your master and beg him to send you to Oldtown, if that was the best fighting you could show.” </p>
<p>The boy heeded her counsel and fled, leaving the Crannogman alone with his two saviours. The smile vanished from the girl’s face, replaced with a look of concern, that was near as attractive to her look of joy. There was a veiled sadness to her eyes, yet they had shimmered with glee as she fought. She would do well amongst the crannogs.  </p>
<p>“I hope they did not hurt you too much. I came quickly, though not quickly enough. You are my father’s man, are you not?” </p>
<p>The way she spoke of her father... It finally clicked within his mind who the girl must be. She was a Stark of Winterfell, she had to be.  </p>
<p>“You’re Lyanna Stark, daughter of Lord Rickard.” </p>
<p>His father had told him stories of sullen and stern Rickard and his four children. There was Brandon, the wild wolf, a lust and temper not tempered by his status, and Eddard, the second-born, a quiet and dignified man. Then there was Lyanna, the wolf-girl, who rode as well as she fought, who roamed the Wolfswood willfully, who held the blood of the wolf within her. She was a great beauty, and he saw that now. It was brought forth by the wildness, not in the way that a frozen wasteland could be hauntingly beautiful, more like the glistening of frost on a growth of winter roses. It was not delicate beauty, nor was it fashioned or manufactured. It was pure and natural. </p>
<p>“And that must make you Benjen Stark, the youngest.” </p>
<p>The boy bowed his head, though no words escaped his lips. It was a simple gesture, though one that made him feel at home with the two lordling children of Winterfell. </p>
<p>“That we are, crannogman. We are here for the tourney, to see the great lords in the lists, and the melee, too. You are far from your home, though some of your kin are here with us. Why are you not with them?” </p>
<p>He thought back to his view of the shoreline as he approached from his skiff. He had not spied the lizard lion of Reed, nor the water lillies of Fenn, or the plain green field of Blackmyre.  </p>
<p>“I did not come with them. I came here from the Isle of Faces, where I visited the Green Men, to seek their wisdom for my father.” </p>
<p>Such an explanation may have been met with derision by southron nobles, but it was deemed perfectly acceptable by the Stark children, who ushered him under their wings. They took him through the tourneyfields, pointing his attention to the great lords of the realm. Lyanna told him all about Bronze Yohn Royce, and how his family still held faith in the Old Gods, but in secret, whilst Benjen excitedly pointed out Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, a great southron knight. The smells of cooking meat and crackling fires spread over him, and he struggled to take all of it in. It was as if his senses were being bombarded, but in no bad way.  </p>
<p>At last, they made their way to the Stark pavilions. Compared to some of the spectacular southron tents, the Stark canvases were simple and understated, simple grey sheets supported on wooden beams. To their right stood the green of Mormont, that he had spied from the lake, and to the left was the tattered, yellow pavilion of House Dustin. Outside that tent stood a mighty lord, his beard long and rust-red, with muscles bulging underneath his leather. Beside him stood a woman, tall and fair, her dress bore the colours of Ryswell, orange and black.  </p>
<p>It was to the three men stood outside the Stark tent to whom his eyes were drawn, however. The first was a young warrior, though the eldest of the three. He wore his whiskers long. The other two were clearly brothers, for both were long of face and hair, at similar heights, though one was slightly shorter than the other, and builds. The main difference was in their eyes. The taller of the two had eyes that burned with passion and ire, whilst the other had eyes that were quiet and sombre, like a gentle storm. It was the taller one who spoke first.  </p>
<p>“There you are Lyanna. Rodrik has been looking for you everywhere.” </p>
<p>He waved his hand gently, and the first man silently left, disappearing behind the pavilions.  </p>
<p>“I trust that our little brother kept you out of trouble.” </p>
<p>He shot Benjen a pointed look, which was met by a sheepish grin, as Benjen ran his fingers through the back of his mane.  </p>
<p>“You had better do a better job in the lists tomorrow, little brother. If you embarrass me then I may just make father force you to the Wall.” </p>
<p>Now he had heard the eldest wolf talk, he saw that the grey fire in his eyes was not just rage, but a playfulness. It was not a sexual lust, more a lust for enjoyment and for life. Still, there was something unnerving about him. There was just something about the way he was that set the Crannogman ill at ease. There was an untermpered heat to him, compared to the icy coolness of his younger brother.  </p>
<p>“Ben will hardly be the worst squire here, trust me, brother.” </p>
<p>Brandon grunted at his sister’s words, before turning to the youngest boy.  </p>
<p>“A good squire should know the competition his master has to face. You will tell me what you learnt from your wanderings whilst I show you the tents and pavilions at the lists, so you do not get confused on the morrow.” </p>
<p>With that, the eldest Stark swept away, his wolfskin cloak trailing behind him, in the dusty dirt of the bare ground. It was dry here, and so there was no mud, but it still did little good for the cloak. Benjen shot the Crannogman a wave before following his brother. The boy was young and excitable, though he couldn’t help but like him.  </p>
<p>It was then that he realised that Brandon Stark had not looked upon him once, whereas, when he turned his eyes on the other brother, he found those haunting, grey eyes locked upon him, the flicker of a smile playing at his tight lips.  </p>
<p>“You always bring back new waifs and strays, sister, though this one is no lowborn stableboy. He is of noble stock.” </p>
<p>He was shocked at the perceptiveness. Men of the crannogs did not differentiate themselves between highborn and lowborn, save for where one was to live. They dressed in the same coloyurs and fabrics, and walked the same way, so how had this Stark been able to identify him as ‘highborn’? </p>
<p>“My father told me much of your people, the men of the Neck, and one thing he told me was that they travelled in packs, like wolves, hidden in your country. The only time a Crannogman would willingly travel alone was for the ancient rite of pilgrimage, reserved for those who hold the blood of the Marsh Kings. You are a scion of the Reeds of Greywater Watch, are you not?” </p>
<p>Such knowledge of crannogmen customs was rare enough outside the Neck, but to call it out of thin air on a whim? To be a lord meant to know your people, and this wolf clearly knew those of the North.  </p>
<p>“You are right, my lord. I am of House Reed, and I have no place to rest my head after my long journey.” </p>
<p>The lord bowed his head to him, a gesture of friendship and acceptance.  </p>
<p>“I have space enough for a small one, such as yourself. You may share my furs, Reed, though you must tell me your name first. I am Eddard Stark, though you may call me Ned. Most everyone does.” </p>
<p>The Crannogman bowed his head in return, to show he accepted the generous offer.  </p>
<p>“Then, Ned Stark, you may call me Howland Reed.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Dragon at Harrenhal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Rhaegar Targaryen stands ready at Harrenhal, with the Sword of the Morning at his back. News must be shared, and celebrations observed, prior to the lists on the morrow. Both the prince and the knight ponder happiness, and what it is they truly desire.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The crenelations of the Kingspyre Tower were rugged and worn by the wind, and twisted by the dragonfire of the Black Dread. Arthur ran his slender fingers across the stonework, feeling a slight warmth, as if the dragon had only bathed it in flames that morning. The wind had whipped through the conflagration that morn, those three hundred years ago, as it now whipped the hair of a very different kind of dragon, who stood, looking out over the twisted ruins of Harrenhal. The crown prince’s hair flew out behind him, a stream of silvery-gold, lustrous and freshly-washed, ahead of the celebrations on the eve. The sun set over the God’s Eye, golden light spilling down upon the shimmering mass of water, and onto them, as they watched it fall.  </p><p>At the castle gate there was a small commotion, as a brown mare rode south, along the Kingsroad. The rider wore a pure, white cloak billowing behind him. It was a late start, though Ser Jaime would arrive at Sow’s Horn before midnight, and King’s Landing by noon the next day, if he set off prompt on the morrow. He was being denied his chance of glory, though such was the role of the Kingsguard. Arthur still remembered the laughing youth he had met in the Kingswood. He would change, under the tutelage of Hightower, and the control of Aerys. His humour and his japes would be straightened, turned serious, under the yoke of the white cloak. </p><p>“My father was cruel to him. I do not know yet if he will be ally or enemy for my cause, but if we can bring him to our side than mayhaps his father will come with him. The support of the Rock would be key for us in securing the change that we so desire.” </p><p>Rhaegar spoke generously of Lord Tywin Lannister, a man with a fearful reputation across the Seven Kingdoms, though Arthur suspected his support would be not so easily gained. It was said that the proud lion lord still rankled at Rhaegar choosing the Dornish princess over his own daughter, and at the freedoms that King Aerys had taken with his lady wife, although that had been before Arthur’s time.  </p><p>“Even if you hold the support of the Rock your father will not merely bend the knee to your accession. Blades will be drawn, and blood will be spilled, all in the name of change that you cannot guarantee.” </p><p>Ser Oswell stepped forward from behind Arthur then, a scowl upon his dark, sullen face.  </p><p>“I will not raise my sword to cut him down and be branded an oathbreaker. Take the support of your high lords, Rhaegar, but remember that confronting your father is more than who has most men.” </p><p>Rhaegar had told Arthur and Oswell about his grand aspirations. He intended to change what it meant to be Westerosi, to bring the Seven Kingdoms forward in a way that had not been seen since the rule of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne, but Oswell was right. Achieving that through bloodshed would win the crown prince no friends.  </p><p>“The Lord of Winterfell is the key... He weds his daughter to the Storm Lord, and his eldest son to Lord Tullys girl, with his second son a ward of Lord Arryn. If he were to wed him to Lord Tywin’s girl...” </p><p>Rhaegar quickly turned on his heels then, so that he was faced to the two of them. His smile was gentle and calm, though his eyes flashed with lightning of excitement. It was little surprise to Arthur that there were so many maids in the kingdom who dreamed of the prince being between their legs.  </p><p>“I will speak with Lord Rickard’s heir on the morrow, my friends, but tonight is no time for such talk. I did not bring you here to speak on ambitions and schemes, but on news of a far greater sort.” </p><p>The prince moved first to Oswell, placing his hands on his shoulders, a look exchanged between them, though Arthur could not see their eyes well enough to know what was conveyed through it. Rhaegar moved to him next, stroking his cheek with his slender, gentle fingers, cupping the skin slightly, before pulling away, and standing between them.  </p><p>“I am to be a father again. My Elia is with child.” </p><p>It took Arthur a few moments to comprehend the news that Rhaegar was sharing. Another child for the prince could change the political face of the Seven Kingdoms. If it was a son...  </p><p>Princess Rhaenys was a wild girl, fond of running through the corridors and walkways of Dragonstone, her arms outstretched, pretending that she was the Black Dread. She was clever enough, but lacked the gentle charm of her father, for she was forceful, yet not demanding. Rhaegar allowed her to train with wooden swords, and stories said that she had the skill of any boy her age. It was not unusual for the women of House Targaryen to be warriors. Visenya, the elder wife of the Conqueror, had wielded Dark Sister like an extension of her own body, or so it was said.  </p><p>Still, there were many in the Seven Kingdoms who would not wish to be ruled by a woman, so a male heir for the king would secure his inheritance, and win him support from some of those lords.  </p><p>“If it is a girl then she will be Visenya, and if a boy then Aegon. The dragon must have three heads, that is the truth.” </p><p>Ser Oswell moved first, clapping the prince into a strong embrace. It was rare for the knight of Harrenhal to show such emotion, but a pat on the back for the royal showed his happiness at the news. Rhaegar responded in turn, before pulling away from the other man.  </p><p>“I thank you for your congratulations, Ser Oswell. I would ask you to fetch my Lord Connington and bring him to my chambers. I had best tell him the news before tonight’s celebrations, so as to avoid him hearing it from someone else’s lips.” </p><p>Oswell bowed his head and left them, clambering down the wooden ladder that led to the peak of the tower. Arthur had not even considered how Jon would react. Rhaegar loved his wife as much as his Griffin Lord, and yet Connington had never truly accepted her. Arthur could see that in the hardness that came into Jon’s eyes when he looked at the princess. There was a hatred and a jealousy there that was never reciprocated in kind.  </p><p>“It is a great happiness that holds upon me, and yet I know it to be in such a sad place. This castle... It feels as Summerhall feels to me. The tragedy that happened here, the shadow that it cast across the realm... I can barely stand to feel it.” </p><p>“Harren the Black knew what would befall him should he defy the dragon lords, your grace. Do not weep for him.” </p><p>Rhaegar lowered his eyes and shook his head, a great sadness passing over his face, like a shadow had been cast upon it.  </p><p>“Harren may have known the consequences of his actions, but did the washerwomen? The stableboys? The common folk who stoked his great hearths? When the Black Dread came for Harrenhal all people inside burned as if they were the same, no matter their station. Such is true of Summerhall.” </p><p>He turned away from Arthur then, looking out over the wide expanse of Harrenhal, and the lands that lay beyond its mighty walls.  </p><p>“My ancestors chose the words Fire and Blood for my house. They seem fitting, for through folly and ambition, or through madness and paranoia, my family has brought both to these lands. I will not be like Aegon the Fifth. My madness will not see me look for the dragons of the past, for such creatures are dead. It is time not for fire and blood to bind these realms, but for friendship and common cause. Such words do not sound nearly as exciting, however.” </p><p>His words were coloured with love and care. He had lived under the shadow of Summerhall, or so his eldest friends had said. Arthur had journeyed to the ruined halls with his prince, his friend, and seen the effect that they had upon him. It was as if those ruins were his lifeblood, and yet also his doom. They drove him into the deepest of despairs, and yet they also drove him to dream of a better world. Such was the conundrum of Rhaegar Targaryen’s mind.  </p><p>“But such thoughts are not for tonight. Let us go downstairs and be merry, for we celebrate. I will speak with Jon first. Go ahead of me, and remove your cloak for the night, or else you will trip on it whilst you dance.” </p><p>Arthur bowed his own head this time, and left the prince to his thoughts. He could see that the smile he showed was masking something else. There had been genuine happiness when he had told them of his new child, but at the last he had shown some deep well of worry. Mayhaps it was as simple as him not being sure how Jon would take the news, but perhaps it was more... </p><p>His chambers were small and modest, a simple wooden bed, with scratchy sheets and a thin blanket, and a small basin of lukewarm water. He removed the white cloak, hanging it beside his armour, and instead dressed himself in purple breeches and jerkin, allowing himself the colours of his home.  </p><p>He missed Starfall, that was true. The splashing sounds of children playing in the shallows of the Torrentine, the open, blue sky, and the heat of the sun, basking down on the dry, arid land beneath it. It was home for him, and it always would be. Some days he would ride through the winding paths of the Red Mountains with his elder brother, whilst others he would sit and speak of stories with Allyria, his youngest sibling. He was separated from them now, by half a kingdom, and a single white cloak. He wondered if Jaime had truly thought about what he had done, for there was no going back, not whilst Aerys remaind king.  </p><p>The festivities had already begun in the great hall of Harrenhal castle. Maidens danced with knights and lords, whilst serving wenches darted in between, platters of food being offered around. Children played at wooden swords in the yard, whilst the high lords sat upon their benches, quaffing ale and talking of politics and women.  </p><p>“...the fairest beauty in the realm. Piss on the Lannister girl. They say my Stark bride is as untameable as the North itself. I say that she hasn’t seen a Baratheon without his breeches. That sight alone would tame her!” </p><p>He heard young Lord Baratheon say to his retinue of simpering worshippers, amongst them Rhaegar’s friend, Richard Lonmouth. Lonmouth was a big and brawny youth, with a bushy brown beard, and the look of a soldier. He remained steely-mouthed, whilst all of Baratheon’s others laughed at his remark. Arthur moved away from them, for they were not his sort of men.  </p><p>The Starks themselves sat on the other side of the room, their party more muted than that of Lord Baratheon. The eldest, Brandon, a fierce warrior and rider, spoke congenially with a red-haired girl, who wore the colours of House Tully, his younger brother sat beside him. The girl sat with them was a fair beauty, that was true, despite her long face and hard eyes. There was wildness to her that drew men’s eyes, and a fiery passion beneath her face... She did not have the gentle charm of Elia, nor the radiance of his own sister, but her own qualities were special, in their own way.  </p><p>She was sat speaking with a scrawny youth dressed in green and browns, who Arthur did not recognise. He must have been some part of the Starks retinue, of some high birth to have been afforded such a seat. He paid him little mind, however.  </p><p>He passed other parties as he walked to the head of the hall. Old Lord Walder had sent five of his sons and grandsons to compete in the lists. Lord Mormont sat with his sister, fierce warriors the pair of them, his valyrian steel sword hung at his hip. Lord Royce commanded the attention of a dozen lesser knights as he told tales of tourneys past. Near to him stood Lord Dustin, who laughed along at the tales being told.  </p><p>“You are late for the celebrations, brother.” </p><p>The voice caught him off-guard, and when he looked to his left he found nobody there. A gentle flick to his right cheek gave him cause to look the other way, and he was confronted by the smiling face of his sister, Lady Ashara Dayne.  </p><p>His sister was tall for a woman, though shorter than he was by a few inches, with long brown hair, which tumbled past her shoulders, down to her navel, and eyes of lilac, haunting and ghostly. A smile played on her thin lips, and her eyes creased slightly, as if she was holding back laughter.  </p><p>“I was with Rhaegar. He had news to share with me.” </p><p>“News of the babe, I suppose. It is no surprise that he told you first of all.” </p><p>She offered her his hand, and he took it, placing his own against her waist. Dancing with Ashara was no strange thing for him, as they had done it often in their youth at Starfall. He let the music and the rhythm wash over him, and moved in tune with her.  </p><p>“The Princess told you?” </p><p>“Of course. I am her handmaiden, after all, and such news would be hard to keep concealed from all on such a journey as we have just taken. Still, I would be surprised if there was more than ten people within these walls who know. There is you and me, and of course the happy couple, as well as Elia’s brother, who she also told.” </p><p>“Ser Oswell knows, too, and the prince intends to tell Jon tonight.” </p><p>Their steps were methodical and deliberate, the rhythm slow and steady, yet not ponderous. Lord Walter had spared little expense, and the bards had been selected from across the Seven Kingdoms. At that moment, it was a Dornishman plucking at the strings of a harp to which they danced.  </p><p>“That will go well. Elia has told me how she accepts her husband’s love for Lord Connington, but how such respect is not returned. It will prove to be just another reason for the man to resent her.” </p><p>“And the king? When will he be told?” </p><p>Ashara glanced sideways, before leaning in, resting her head on his shoulder, as they moved gently. It was comfortable and natural, but it also allowed her to whisper into his ear, so that they were not overheard.  </p><p>“The Princess will return to Dragonstone first, for fear that the king will interfere with the birth. The spider has already driven him to paranoia surrounding Rhaega. Should he have an heir... Elia fears her good-father's wroth in such a matter.” </p><p>It was true enough that the king’s sanity had descended further into the depths of madness in recent months, stoked by the whispers of Lord Varys. He feared his son, and his lords. He saw treason behind every corner and closed doorway, and believed that half the whores in the brothels of King’s Landing wanted him dead.  </p><p>Arthur had oft watched Rhaegar to see how his father’s state affected him. The prince did not want to be king out of a lust for power, but a will for change. His father’s decline would make that more accessible, and it was true that Rhaegar saw that. The prince had not forgotten the dismissive tone that his father had used when referring to Princess Rhaenys, nor had he forgiven it. The relationship between the two was damaged beyond repair, and yet that could not be shown. For official business Rhaegar still stood by his father, as a good son should, yet when the eyes of the kingdom and the commons were not upon them... </p><p>“You look better without that white cloak around your neck, brother. It ages you.” </p><p>The words took him by surprise, and so he missed his steps, nearly collapsing to the dance floor. Ashara saved him, a gentle laugh passing across her lips, and her eyes flashing with the joy of the moment.  </p><p>“There is not a maiden who has not glanced at you this evening, save for maybe the Stark girl. That white cloak makes you into a middle-aged man, bound by honours and duties, yet without it... Is that what Rhaegar will give you?” </p><p>It had not failed to cross his mind. The restrictions of the Kingsguard did not exactly chafe at him, but it was a sadness to know that you would never know love. Rhaegar may free him from such laws, and give him that chance, yet others in the order would not choose it. Did he lack the strength of Ser Hightower, because he did not wish to live his life a celibate monk? It was not as if he gazed at women with lust, but... Love was more than the touching of flesh, it was more than the act of fucking. He was not sure what he wanted, whether it was what he had or what he had never known.  </p><p>“Rhaegar will give me many things, but more will he give the realm. I am with him for them, not for me.” </p><p>His sister’s eyes lowered down to the ground for a few moments, but then they moved back up to his, her slender fingers caressing his cheek, as Rhaegar had done atop the tower.  </p><p>“You are a good man, brother. You should not be confined behind words and oaths. It is not a lack of strength to wish for more. You have earned it. You are the Sword of the Morning. It is only right for you to wish for more from life than servitude.” </p><p>Maybe she was right. Could he not be Rhaegar’s man without the shackles of the Kingsguard? Could he not be amongst the Kingsguard brothers and still know love, and life? Why were they bound to celibacy? Could he not protect his prince and his wife? As a youth he had been driven by glory, as Ser Jaime was now, but had learned of service and honour. As a knight he was sworn to protect the realm, but now he was to do so without feeling emotion, as if he were some stone statue, made to feel nothing. It was not so.  </p><p>The white cloak was his yoke. Did he want to be freed from it? Did he want it removed? He could not say. He just wanted a future, any future, where he knew there was more for him than this. She was right, as usual. He did not wish to be locked away. Maybe Rhaegar would give him that. Was it selfish to think such thoughts? </p><p>He did not do this for himself, however. It was for the realm. It was always for the realm.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Dancing Dayne</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The festivities of Harrenhal continue, with gathered guests from across the Seven Kingdoms enjoying themselves. Ashara Dayne, one of the most sought after women of the time, knows many suitors, and dances with some of them. She deals with broken hearts and broken promises, but how will she help to change the Seven Kingdoms forever?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She danced a few minutes more with her brother, who’s easy elegance and nimble movements caressed the floor of Harrenhal’s great hall, to the awe of some onlookers. Arthur had once told her that fighting a battle was little different from dancing, though a misstep in one would only leave you with a sprained ankle. Still, she could understand what he meant. The movement in time to your partner, the speed of mind and coordination, and the deftness of touch and skill, it was all very much what she saw when Arthur wielded Dawn, their ancestral sword. It was no wonder that he was so skillful at both.  </p><p>Still, soon the music came to an end, and he bid her a good evening, disappearing into the throngs to find Princess Elia, whom he wished to congratulate. He was replaced on her arm by a whole host of lords and knights. She danced next with the Lord of the Vale, who was amiable enough, and then a son of Walder Frey, by the name of Hosteen, who was tall and cumbersome as partners go. After that came one of her brother’s own vassals, Lord Perros Blackmont. As he left, so came the next of her dancing partners, Oberyn Martell, who was the brother of her brother’s liege lord, and also brother to Elia, who she served as handmaiden.  </p><p>Oberyn was a fine image of a man, tall and graceful, yet with a fierce temper, and dark, dangerous eyes. His hair fell long and sleek, as black as night, and his chin pointed sharply, with thin lips and thinner eyebrows. He wore a samite robe, coloured yellow and orange in a queer interlocking pattern, and a simple belt around his waist, at which he wore a wickedly curved dagger. Half the maidens in the castle would wish to be bedded by him, and if Elia’s tales were true then half of them may well get their wish. The princess claimed that her brother had taken the maidenheads of the daughters of four Dornish lords, and fathered bastards on more than that. Her brother had mooted him as a possible candidate for her hand, to assure the Martells were reminded of the friendship of House Dayne, yet she doubted the prince had the capability to change his wanton ways.  </p><p>Yet his touch was surprisingly gentle, as he took her hand in his. His skin was tanned and calloused, from years of spearfighting in the hot, Dornish sun. He inclined his head to her, before the music washed over them, and moved well to the rhythm, holding her tight and close, a grip on her waist that made her feel safe. As he leaned in towards her, he spoke to her, his voice quiet and gentle, yet without sounding like a song being sung.  </p><p>“Four more of my brother’s vassals have affirmed their support for Rhaegar, should he remember his love for my sister. Should he put her aside for his paramour, this griffin lord, then such loyalties may become questionable.” </p><p>His tone hardened the more he spoke, to the point where it sounded as if the last part was some sort of threat. She knew that the Red Viper had a fierce reputation, and was not one to be insulted. It was best for her to pacify him.  </p><p>“Our prince loves your sister very much, as he loves his griffin, also. He will not set her aside, not when she has given him his children. He loves them, too. They are his future.” </p><p>Oberyn’s eyes flited towards the prince, who was stood near the head of the room, talking fondly with the Lords Arryn, Royce, and Hunter, all three of the Vale. He seemed animated, and Hunter and Royce laughed loudly at something either he or Lord Arryn had spoken. The prince was elegantly dressed in flowing robes of black, with a red trim, and a cape of black satin. Around his brow sat a simple, gold band. His slender fingers were adorned with rings and fineries. He wore a smile upon his face, and his eyes flashed in the light of the room, even from here.  </p><p>“Should I take the word of a man who conspires against his own father as honest? Words of men can rarely be trusted, save for when spoken from weakness, after either torture or climax. Your prince may seem genuine, yet he is coloured by his ambition.” </p><p>“Mayhaps that is true, my prince, but he is not me, and I do not make Rhaegar’s decisions for him. I am Princess Elia’s woman, and do not even speak for her.” </p><p>His eyes narrowed slightly, still not moved away from the prince, who now patted Lord Hunter upon the back. Ser Oswell hovered behind him, not in armour, yet still at alert. She scanned the room quickly, looking for the slender frame of Elia. Eventually she saw her, talking with the Lords Velaryon and Brune. Monford Velaryon was a younger man, blessed with silver-gold hair and handsome features, whilst Eustace was a brute of a man, tall and toned, with common, brown hair, and a beard of stubble. The two were allies of Rhaegar, and so Elia entertained them well enough.  </p><p>“Such is fair. No man should speak for another. You tell me that this prince indeed loves my sister. I hope that you are right. I do not wish to cut his cock off, but such a punishment would be necessary should he besmirch Elia.” </p><p>She flashed him a smile, her lilac eyes softening for him, but her words carried little of the same grace. She had need of appearing a certain way, in case eyes of the king were watching them. It was said that the eunuch spider had his little birds in every castle of the Seven Kingdoms.  </p><p>“If he does so, then I shall be more than willing to hold him down for you, Prince Oberyn. I trust that he will not. Setting her aside is not the way that their story should end. The gods do not write romance so poorly.” </p><p>The dance petered out after that exchange. Oberyn bowed to her, before disappearing into the crowds, no doubt looking for his sister. The two were near inseparable when they were together, for the prince loved his sister dearly. Still, even such bonds could not blunt his desire for adventure. She wondered how long he would spend in Westeros this time, before departing for one of the Free Cities. Some said that Prince Oberyn had dined at more foreign courts than even Corlys the Sea-Snake. She did not doubt it.  </p><p>His place was quickly taken by a man she had not expected. Lord Connington stood tall. He and Oberyn bore a similar ferocity, though something about it was fundamentally different. Jon’s felt more repressed, which made it all the greater, whereas the Dornish prince was prone to releasing his own. Connington was a handsome enough man, but he was blunt and brusque, and seemed uncomfortable around most people, let alone those close with Elia, who he despised. His cheeks were slightly reddened tonight, and she suspected that some tears had been shed. Despite his animosity for her friend, she found herself pitying the griffin lord from time to time. He was no great man, but the gods had dealt him a poor hand. He was forced to only show his love behind closed doors, and even such as was shown back to him was shared. Some bard had once said that it was better to have loved and lost than never love at all, though Connington’s sad tale made Ashara question such a philosophy.  </p><p>“Could I perhaps take this dance, my lady.” </p><p>He spoke courteously enough, though it sounded more like a statement than a question, so she took the hand proffered to her. His grip was firm and strong, though also ungainly, and his movements lacked the grace that Oberyn’s had held. Connington was less lean than her brother, but well-built and endowed with broad shoulders and strong muscles. Seen as she seemed to have little choice, she took his hand. </p><p>They moved in silence for a few moments. Connington moved gracelessly, with wooden steps and a scowl upon his features. His cheeks were flushed red, more from embarrassment than stress or effort, she suspected. He must know that he lacked the natural flair of most of the dancers. It was a crooked performance, and she was unsure why he had even chosen to enter the fray.  </p><p>“I just spoke with the prince.” </p><p>His words lacked formality and subtlety. He had further that he wished to speak about, but he did not wish to broach the topic so abruptly. Was he expecting an answer? Some sort of words to further the conversation? He did not, for it was he that spoke next.  </p><p>“He told me of his news, and he proposed a solution. He suggested that we wed.” </p><p>He spoke the word solution as if Elia being with child was some sort of problem, when it was instead delightful news, both for her and for the kingdom. She was taken aback by what he said after. There was no passion or desire to his voice, mostly just spoken with a blunt tone, not befitting of such a proposal.  </p><p>As a girl, she had thought on marriage, though never dreamed of it. She had first thought she would be wed to one of her father’s vassals, a Blackmont, or a Manwoody, or maybe one of the more powerful Dornish houses near to Starfall, an Uller or a Qorgyle. When she had grown, it became clear she was a beauty, her brother had thought of grander ambitions. Such thoughts were not for her to marry the Lord of Griffin’s Roost on the whims of the dragon king. Besides, it was not as if she did not want to know love. Somewhere there would be a great lord or a handsome knight who wanted her for more than her haunting eyes, or her pert breasts. Lord Connington wanted her for more than that, though it was not what she had ever hoped. </p><p>“You insult me, my lord. I do not wish to marry you to accommodate your own life, when I have a life of my own that I wish to live. Your prince should not deign to decide who I wed.” </p><p>Connington’s face soured for a moment, though she detected no displeasure at her refusal. Some lords may resent a woman talking back to them as such, but she would not be given away as if she were some meek maiden.  </p><p>“I should strike you for talking about him like that. Rhaegar will be king one day. Speak his title with more respect. If he tells you to do something then you should do it.” </p><p>“If you wish to strike me then do so, my lord, but know that there are no shortage of men in this room who will take up the sword to defend my honour, least of all my brother, the Sword of the Morning.” </p><p>Their movement had almost stopped, but the words were exchanged in hushed, angry whispers, so as not to let anyone else know what was being discussed. Still, she felt eyes on her, as if some ghost was watching her from the shadows of the long hall.  </p><p>“I am Elia’s handmaiden, and I serve her well, but matters of my marriage are for me and my brother. Not for Rhaegar.” </p><p>Jon looked as if he wanted to further press the point, but instead his shoulders slackened, and his posture lost strength, resigned to defeat on such a matter.  </p><p>“I- I apologise, my lady. I had just hoped- One day I will have need to return to Griffin’s Roost and rule as lord proper. A wife at court would give me reason to stay close to him. I had hope, for a few moments.” </p><p>She was taken aback by how broken he now looked. His eyes lacked ferocity, and she saw the bloodshot lines on the whites, the tell-tale signs of sobbing. Somehow, his fiery red hair seemed to lose some of its sheen, and his whole face now turned down, his eyes unable to truly meet hers, shame and embarrassment plastered across his expression. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he lost much of the imposing posture had held before. She sighed, and raised her hand to his cheek, cupping it gently.  </p><p>“You are forgiven, my lord. I know the pain you endure. I will not hold such against you, but I am not the woman you hope me to be. Maybe another can be found, one who may be more willing.” </p><p>It was as if she was comforting a child, but she did feel genuine pain for him, even when he hated her friend. He was not the villain to Elia, but instead the victim of the time and place that he had been born. Had he only been Dornish... </p><p>Instead, he had been raised being taught that what he felt was wrong, that it would cause was unbearable sin, and suffering within the seven hells for all eternity. He found the man that he loved, but was separated from him by some force, and unable to publically show his affection, instead resigned to private displays of love, though such were not the same. The septons and maesters did not know the pain they had done this boy when they had raised him by the word of the Seven-Pointed Star.  </p><p>“Dance with Lady Turnberry, who serves the queen as handmaiden, or Jocelyn Wyl, who enjoys the company of women more than men. Such would maybe be more happy to wed you, my lord.” </p><p>He nodded his head slightly, jerkily, still unable to meet her eyes, his pride hurt by his behaviour, and the way she had refused him. Such was the fickle, brittle honour of men. </p><p>Some would say that empathy was a weakness, but Ashara found it made it easier for her to grow close to those she valued, for she connected very easily with them. Arthur was the same, though his life held him from a pacifist path. Ashara did not like to see those in pain, even when they should be her enemies. She would help where she could, and Lord Connington was very clearly hurting. Still, she would not throw away her life for his.  </p><p>“I thank you, my lady, for your forgiveness, and for your discretion. Some must know, and I am grateful those few keep me safe, even if I displease you all with my actions.” </p><p>A deep breath passed through her nostrils, and a soft, kind smile fell over her face, as she looked into the eyes of the young lord.  </p><p>“Your heart does not displease me, Jon. Your words towards my princess, maybe, but not the love you hold for Rhaegar. He need you, as he needs Elia, for what comes next.” </p><p>Few words more were exchanged between them, and when the music was done, Jon disappeared into the crowd, as Oberyn had before him, and she was left alone amidst the masses, dancing by herself, for a few moments. The respite was well-earned and refreshing, for she had been busy, doing more than just moving her feet to rhythm. It was soon interrupted, by a strong, stern voice from behind her.  </p><p>“If I could speak with you, Lady Dayne. I have a simple request.” </p><p>She turned, and was confronted by the imposing frame of Brandon Stark, the heir to Winterfell.  </p><p>He was taller than both Oberyn and Connington, with thick matts of brown hair, framing his hard, stony face. His eyes were deeply intense, almost a white-hot flame to them, and yet somehow cold and firm also, a queer combination within his grey, flashing eyes. His face was long, as was his torso. He had thick arms, and broad shoulders. Many maidens looked at him, their hears set aflutter, and Ashara could see why. There was a sullenness to the wolf lord, but it was no reticence, and such behaviour could be somewhat alluring. A part of her wished that he was going to ask her to dance, for she wished to know the feel of him.  </p><p>“Ask away, Lord Stark.” </p><p>He grunted, a sign of thanks in the North. They were from opposite regions of the realm, as far apart as one could get in Westeros, yet the North and Dorne were the outliers, different from the rest. Maybe that was a bond.  </p><p>“My brother wishes to dance with you, yet he is too shy to ask for himself, I know that. I would ask for your hand upon the dancefloor on his behalf.” </p><p>His hand raised slightly, to gesture towards another man, who hovered around the seats, a youth stood next to him in greens and browns. He looked a lot like his elder brother, save for being a few inches shorter, his shoulders less broad, and his arms less thick. Few maids would be disappointed by him naturally, yet in comparison to his elder brother...  </p><p>“Do not let his shyness fool you. He is a good lad; strong, leal, and smart, too. He has never kissed a girl, let alone slept with one. He does not know the words to ask one such as you to dance, though do not tell him I said any of that.” </p><p>When one looked upon Brandon Stark, few would think him to be a good brother, and yet here he was, debasing himself for the benefit of his kin. She admired that. Besides, dancing with lord Stark’s second son would be less likely to be loaded with political subterfuge than her previous partners.  </p><p>“I would gladly oblige, my lord.” </p><p>Brandon smiled slightly, an approving nod accompanied it, though he spoke no more words. Instead, he strode over to the younger Stark, whispered something in his ear, and gave him a firm clap upon the back. That was met by some last advice from the wiry companion, and then the young lordling walked his way across the dancefloor.  </p><p>One could tell he was nervous by his stature. He was taller than he had looked, though his shoulders slumped slightly, and he did not meet her eyes as he grew close. It was not the same as with Connington, who had acted out of shame, and she found the boy’s nerves slightly endearing. There were many brash and confident lord here, such as Robert Baratheon, but such traits were not what she wanted in a man. She offered him her hand, and he took it, almost reluctantly.  </p><p>“And the other upon my waist, my lord. Did a septa not teach you how to dance?” </p><p>She tried to speak the words kindly, and without a waspish tone, and it seemed to relax the lordling, who smiled slight, nodding wordlessly, and placed his hand upon her waist. He had a strong, confident grip, that belied his nerves and anxiousness.  </p><p>“That is good, my lord. Your name is Eddard, is it not?” </p><p>Elia had talked her through the families of all the great lords who would be in attendance. She was sure that Lord Stark’s second son was Eddard, and this boy was too old to be the youngest.  </p><p>“It is, my lady.” </p><p>His words were curt and short, though there was no rudeness there. He spoke in a measured manner, lacking the gregarious out-pouring of most lordlings.  </p><p>“Then may I call you Eddard? My lord sounds awfully formal. In turn, you may call me Ashara.” </p><p>Such informality nearly brought a blush to the boy’s pale face, but not quite. He nodded, his eyes fliting up to hers, just for a moment.  </p><p>“Most people in Winterfell call me Ned, not Eddard. You may call me that too, if you like?” </p><p>His absolute innocence was refreshing. Prince Obery was fierce and impassioned, whilst Connington was motivated by his own yearnings, held behind a mask of politics. Ned held no hidden aspirations. He did not dance with her for political gain, nor to share knowledge of subterfuge and schemes. He danced with her because he was a boy wishing to dance with a girl. She liked that.  </p><p>“I would like that, Ned.” </p><p>The music washed over them, just two people, dancing together, united in that moment, bonded by movement and rhythm, their fates entwined, from that moment onwards.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Knight of the Laughing Tree</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>With the feasts and festivities out of the way, the meat of the tourney begins, with the lists and the jousting commencing. Prince Rhaegar is the favourite, buoyed by the news of his wife's pregnancy, but he will be joined in the fighting by the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, the Lord of Storm's End, Robert Baratheon, and the wild wolf of Winterfell, Brandon Stark. Yet of these four men, could their be one even more curious to show their face?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dawn awoke the camps around Harrenhal, and the sound of knights readying themselves, vendors selling their wares, and smiths hard at the anvil. Howland was disturbed from his own slumber by the sound of Lord Dustin calling for his squire. His bed was a simple wooden frame, with a straw mattress, clean sheets, and a single, scratchy pillow. It was comfortable enough, and no different to what he was used at Greywater Watch.  </p><p>The burst of sunlight was dazzling, and so he closed his eyes shut, happily picturing scenes from the night before. He saw Benjen, hooked upon the words of the Wandering Crow, a stern man with a harsh voice, and Lyanna, a tear trickling down her cheek as the silver prince sang his songs. He saw Eddard dancing with the beautiful, Dornish woman, his steps clumsy, yet earnest. The eldest Stark, Brandon, had danced with his betrothed, Catelyn Tully, an auburn-haired beauty, with pale skin and blue eyes, the colour of shimmering waters.  </p><p>His own eyes opened again, the sunlight less blinding, and gazed up at the white canvas above him. He heard the sounds of rustling to his left, and looked up to see Eddard, awake and dressing. He was topless, exposing his toned, muscled torso, and simple, brown breeches, tied at the waist. His sombre face was already lined by duty, and his lips formed into a stern pout when resting. Still, Howland had warmed to the second-born of the Starks, as he had offered him shelter and a bed. Benjen was sleeping in a tent with Brandon, as he was his squire, and Lyanna shared hers with her female companions, Leona Woolfield and Dacey Mormont, nieces to lords both.  </p><p>“I did not think to wake you. The lists begin soon, but no great knight or lord will joust for some hours. It will just be hedge knights and sworn swords for now. Still, Benjen wishes to watch, and I would provide him company.” </p><p>There was no tiredness to the voice of Ned Stark, who already seemed to be alert and awake. Howland took a few moments, before sitting up upon his makeshift bed. When sleeping in the crannogs, one had to be ready upon waking, for dangers surrounded you. Such was a lesson he had learned.  </p><p>“I came to watch southron jousting. I will watch with you.” </p><p>The jousting fields were adorned with all the regalia of the royal house, as well as some for the hosting house of Whent. Mock dragons sat atop poles, streamers of red, orange, and yellow fire pouring from their mouths. They were not intimidating, but they were certainly impressive. They found young Benjen waiting for them near the lists, a steep stair of seats set up beside him, ranging for the length of the field, the royal box situated in the middle. Howland was surprised to see it already filled. The king had not yet risen, but the silver prince sat in pride of place, flanked by two knights of the Kingsguard.  </p><p>He was dressed in simple garb, likely so that he could change quickly whenever he went to joust. Sat by his side was his princess, a fair beauty from Dorne, with olive skin and dark hair, and two boys, his squires. The first was older, a boy of four and ten, with light-red hair and a charming smile. The second was younger, no more than six or seven, and wore the colours of black and purple, what looked like a bolt of forked lightning emblazoned across his chest.  </p><p>“That’s William Mooton, the prince’s squire. He will win the squire’s melee, like as not. Brandon won’t let me take part.” </p><p>Benjen did not sound so disappointed at that fact, more excited at being able to watch. Still, it made Howland realise that he must have been staring at the prince, so he looked away, and Benjen led them to their seats, situated in the middle of the stand, not far from the royal box, and with an unimpeded view. Later in the day, these seats would be in high demand, yet few had woken up so early. Lord Whent soon joined the prince in the box, and a few squires, pages and grooms had taken the chance to watch some jousting. The only other lords to have come so far were Dornish; Fowler, Allyrion, Vaith and Qorgyle, or so Benjen told him. Ned sat in sombre silence, whilst his younger brother talked relentlessly.  </p><p>The first knights to joust were Lord Walter’s sons and brother, all of whom bore the bats of their family, save for the latter, who wore plain white. Most of the sons were easily unhorsed by household knights, save for one, who performed more admirably, whilst the brother comfortably unhorsed any knight thrown before him.  </p><p>The next notable joust came when Desmond Grell and Robin Ryger, both household knights of Lord Tully of Riverrun, and close friends besides according to Benjen, broke sixteen lances against each other, before Ser Desmond sent Robin flying dramatically. He was unhorsed in his next joust against Ser Lyn Corbray of the Vale.  </p><p>The stands started to fill up then, as more noted riders joined the fray. Lord Whent’s last riding son was unseated by Lord Royce, who was clad in thick, bronze plate, and had a booming laugh. He clapped the young boy in a bear’s embrace after the joust, and hailed the host, claiming that he should be proud of the boy’s exploits, to which Lord Whent raised his goblet, receiving a cheer from the amassed commons. The brother, Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard, Benjen told him, knocked off four more knights, the most notable of them Jason Mallister of Seagard, before being knocked from his own saddle by his sworn brother, the grizzled Dornish knight.  </p><p>At that point, Ned stepped forward to help supply Howland with names, as Benjen was called away to help Brandon prepare himself for his own lists. Ned was less verbose than his brother, and he gave less information, though part of that was a relief, as Benjen had barely stopped to take a breath through most of the jousts.  </p><p>Ned explained the enmity between Houses Blackwood and Bracken to him, right before the Lord of Raventree, Tytos, knocked the Bastard of Bracken from his saddle on their first spear, to much applause from the gathered Northmen.  </p><p>The two of them were now flanked by onlookers, and the stands had filled. On the opposite side of the field stood the commons, a mob of unwashed washerwomen and servants, unable to sit, but stood. They enjoyed the shows of knightly prowess as much as the nobles, moreso at times, especially when their favourites took to the field. One such was The Knight of the Greys, a mystery horseman, who wore a shield of plain grey, and who unhorsed no fewer than five knights of renown, who Ned told him were the Lords Blackwood and Roxton, as well as the knights Lyn Corbray, Lyle Crakehall, and Richard Horpe. Eventually, he was unhorsed, and revealed to be the younger son of Lord Slate, and received a standing ovation from the gathered Northmen, for he had unseated many southron knights.  </p><p>Some Northerners performed well in the lists without masking their identities. Lord Dustin unhorsed five men to earn his own passage into the next round, whilst Mark Ryswell earned a knighthood for his impressive showing against Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, who even Howland had heard of without prompting. Theo Wull and Martyn Cassell fought well, also, though neither advanced into the latter stages.  </p><p>It was three other knights that Howland watched with trepidation, not for the knights themselves, but instead for the squires that served them. He recognised them as the boys that had attacked him the day before, each of them larger than he, and in service to a highborn warrior. He hoped that Ned would protect him as his sister had, should trouble come with them.  </p><p>The first of the boys, Willamen, the leader, served a large, strongly built knight of Frey, his helm stern and rigid, and his biceps rippling underneath his mail. His name was Hosteen Frey, and he possessed a brutish appearance. The second, the pitchfork boy, served a different man of the Crossing, still stern, but shorter and leaner, with a weak chin and weasely eyes when he removed his helm. He was Hosteen’s brother, Aenys Frey, though the two bore little resemblance. The last of the boys, who wore the hanged man upon his chest, served a porcupine knight, who Ned told him was Lord Boryn Blount. All three knights fared well in the lists, for a time at least.  </p><p>Soon enough, sixteen of the twenty champions had been chosen, those who would participate in the afternoon’s lists. Ned reeled off their names for him, and they were Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone, Sers Barristan Selmy, Arthur Dayne, Lewyn Martell, Gerold Hightower, and Jonothor Darry of the Kingsguard, Hosteen and Aenys Frey of the Twins, Ser Bryce Caron, the eldest son of the Lord of Nightsong, Lord Boryn Blount, Jaremy Rykker, the second son of the Lord of Duskendale, the newly knighted Mark Ryswell and Lord Willam Dustin, both of the North, Richard Lonmouth, who wore a cloak of lemon yellow, Brynden Tully, the younger brother of the Lord of Riverrun, and the Storm Lord, Robert Baratheon. It was a fine selection of knights, Ned told him, though the winner would be none of them.  </p><p>“Do you expect Brandon to defeat them all, then?” </p><p>Ned looked at him sombrely, his face passive, and Howland found it difficult to tell what the quiet wolf was thinking.  </p><p>“The winner shall be the prince, I would imagine. He has the advantage that the Kingsguard knights cannot touch him without risking the king’s wroth, and he is deft enough with the lance as it is. Brandon may do well, aye, but I should not expect him to win.” </p><p>The fierce wolf did fare well, doing enough in his five jousts to throw seasoned competitors from their saddles, and secure his place in the next round of play, to the delight of the gathered Northerners. Howland spotted Lord Dustin’s young wife applauding particularly rigorously at the heir’s success. The wolf did little to help calm matters, as he lifted his arms to the skies to soak in the rapturous applause sent his way. Ned scoffed slightly at that.  </p><p>“My brother is ever the performer. Father tells him to watch his love for the crowd, and his temper also, yet he does not listen.” </p><p>There was something endearing about the heir of Winterfell, and Howland could understand why he would be so deeply loved by his friends and the people of the North. Where Ned was sombre and quiet, Brandon could be boisterous and bold, with a fierce rage that went untempered, and a driving passion that you could see just by looking into his eyes. Ned was not unhandsome, but Brandon was fair to look at, and his features were chiselled, almost set in stone, where Ned’s were long and horsey.  </p><p>The prince jousted next, and comfortably unseated the few challengers who went against him; men of Houses Thorne, Hayford, Chelsted, and Hogg. Howland was impressed by his gentle touch and quick movements. He knew little of horseriding, for the Neck did not provide a safe environment for learning, but the control that the prince possessed of his steed was impressive. It was as if he could communicate with the creature, soothe it when angered, and spur it on when it grew too placid.  </p><p>Ned was right also that the prince’s control of the lance was as deft as his grip on the horse. He shattered no more than two lances against any of his opponents, and unhorsed three of them upon the first break. After he was done, he retired to the royal box, the recipient of much praise and applause. </p><p>Yet, somehow, it was not the prince, nor was it Brandon Stark, who would prove to be the queerest of the late arrivals on the listfields, for the next knight who rode out was as odd-looking a knight as you were want to find, and was met with much laughter from the commons, and sniggers from the nobles. His armour was mismatched and dented, well-worn in some places, and fit his frame poorly. Across his arm he wore a shield, yet it too seemed too big for him, as the knight was short in stature. Upon the shield was splashed the laughing face of a weirwood tree, the bark-skin a ghostly white, yet the eyes a bloody red. He sat astride a brindled horse, but it too seemed too big for the man perched upon its back. The knight rode before the silver prince, and spoke.  </p><p>“I am the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and I wish to make my challenge upon these lists.” </p><p>He spoke with a quaver to his voice, yet somehow also an authority. There was a Northern slant to his accent, as befitting the weirwood insignia. He was not as boisterous as Lord Dustin, nor as sombre as Ned, but commanded some silence with the way he spoke, the laughter brought to a halt. The prince did not laugh, though a smile played upon his lips that Howland could see even from where he sat. </p><p>“There are still some other knights wishing to secure their place. Some opponent can be found, I am sure.” </p><p>“I do not wish to joust with hedge knights and sellswords. I would match lance with the dogs of Frey, and the spineless rat of Blount.” </p><p>A few of the gathered nobles exchanged glances, questioning whether this newcomer understood the rules of the lance. Others laughed again, openly and wantonly, whilst fewer sat up, gaining interest in the bedraggled knight in the mismatched armour. </p><p>“The knights Frey and Lord Blount have already found their place in the next round. If you wish to face them then I suggest earning your place first of all.” </p><p>“All these false knights have earned is a beating at my hands, for them and for their squires. Send them before me, and I will give them this.” </p><p>The prince was ready to make another response, yet was interrupted by the blusterings of Ser Hosteen, who charged onto the listfields, his face red from anger, his squire rushing after him, carrying both his shield and his helm.  </p><p>“I will not be insulted by a sot who cannot afford his own armour. I accept your challenge, dog, and shall return you the dirt quick enough. Do not doubt that.” </p><p>He was quickly joined by his squire, wo ran at a tilt, the knight’s horse strung behind him. Hosteen mounted it quickly enough, and looked quite the sight opposite the little lordling he opposed. Ned had leaned forward in interest, his brow furrowed, as the knights took their first runs. Hosteen had twice the size of his opponent, with tree-trunk arms to boot. Yet his first lance missed its mark, skidding off the surface of the shield and into the breeze, whilst the smaller jouster hit true, straight against the shoulder pauldron. It did not knock the knight from his saddle, but it did leave him reeling as they turned for the second tilt. </p><p>The knight’s aim was little better this time, and his lance shattered into splinters upon the challenger’s shield. Once again, the smaller knight’s aim was true, this time his own lance struck the larger man’s shield, but with less force than necessary to knock him from the saddle.  </p><p>“He rides well, this knight of the laughing tree. He controls his horse with ease, yet his strikes are not firm enough. I do not know him, though. Mayhaps Benjen would.” </p><p>It was true that the knight lacked recognition. None around them seemed to be able to identify the mystery jouster. A couple of Ryswell men thought he may be Ethan Glover, another of Brandon’s squires, but others said he lacked the height of the Glover boy. Lord Mormont suggested he may be a man of the Night’s Watch, as some had come south from the Wall, but he wore no black cloak. Other lords claimed him as one of their own men-at-arms, though such suggestions were quickly shouted down. One thing was sure, he controlled his horse with all the grace the Old Gods could give.  </p><p>Four more lances went by, each time the hulking Frey missed his aim, and the lean Northerner found the gaps, but proved too weak to do damage. Eventually, however, the lance found another weak point, just below Hosteen’s right pauldron, and the knight was sent flying, his sword scattering to the dirt. He was escorted away by Whent men, raging about the result, though his damnings were met only by cheers from the commons, who disliked the lordling from the Crossings.  </p><p>“He has the build of a crannogman, do you not think? Is he one of your men?” </p><p>Ned did not meet his eye as he spoke, instead focusing on the figure on horseback, who was wheeling around to the prince, ignoring the applause. There was an intensity to his stare that Howland did not quite understand.  </p><p>“Men of the crannogs do not ride a horse so well as he does. He may have our blood, but he was not born in the Neck. Men that ride a horse that well know the wide expanses of the North.” </p><p>Ser Aenys met the mystery knight’s challenge next, and then Lord Blount, who blustered about the offense that the rider had raised against his family, but both fell. The bouts were similar to the first, with the challenger outmatched time after time, yet eventually he would find the weak spot, and the defender would be left in the dirt, to the cheers of the crowd. When the last one was done, and Lord Blount was helped to his feet, the two knights of Frey returned to the field, calmer, and joined by their squires. Prince Rhaegar rose from his chair.  </p><p>“Congratulations, challenger. You are now in possession of these lord’s horses and armour. What ransom would you ask of them?” </p><p>The Knight of the Laughing Tree seemed to steady himself upon horseback, adjusting his stance as he looked upon the prince, and then turning his eyes to his three defeated opponents.  </p><p>“I would ask not for coin, nor titles, from these men. Merely that they teach their squires better grace and decorum. They should not rampant how they choose through the tourneyfields, not when they serve knights such as you. They bring shame upon their houses, and upon yours also.” </p><p>It was a curious response, and was met with hushed whisperings from the crowd, for it was such an unusual request. Why would one go to such effort for such a small thing? Yet it caused Howland’s brow to furrow more than any others, for he realised that this knight was somehow connected to what had befallen him the day before. It had to. It was surely no coincidence.  </p><p>As knights accepted their burden, and promised to lecture their squires on the behaviour befitting their station, the mystery knight disappeared, still upon horseback, into the throngs, still masked and unknown. Howland was reminded of something that Ned had said earlier, in relation to the Knight of the Laughing tree’s identity.  </p><p>Maybe Benjen knew.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the delay in this chapter, any readers reading this. Its been a busy end to August and start to September, and I wanted to make this chapter pretty good, as it is depicting a big unseen moment from the books, so I hoped it came close to living up to that. With any luck you will be getting another Arthur chapter by the end of the week, to continue the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree. I hope you enjoyed this, and continue to do so. </p><p>--JosefAik</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Wroth of the King</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The ride of the Knight of the Laughing Tree is a story passed on by members of House Reed, and yet it was the reaction of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Aerys II Targaryen, that may define the realm for years to come, for when mystery comes, paranoia and distrust will soon follow.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Right under your nose, this man had made a fool of us, Rhaegar. You call yourself the dragon, and yet he has made as much fool of you as he has of me, and you allowed it. Some upjumped hedge knight-” </p><p>The king’s diatribe was interrupted by a coughing fit, spittle flying from his lips as he ranted, before he moved his hand to his mouth, catching the phlegm he brought forward, his anger having grown too much for him.  </p><p>Father and son stood opposite each other, Rhaegar the exact opposite of his royal father. Aerys was hunched and bent, pallid and worn by the years, a sickly man, with lank, unwashed hair, that was too dirty to show the shining Tagaryen silver-gold. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, twitching from a lack of sleep. Rhaegar stood tall and straight, his hair long, yet flowing like satin. He wore no hatred at his father’s words, and merely steeled his face against the anger being sent his way. It must have been no easy feat to remain so calm, when shamed as such in front of so many others.  </p><p>Lord Whent’s solar had been taken over by the king’s party. Three knights of the Kingsguard had joined Arthur, them being Ser Oswell, Ser Jonothor, and Lord Commander Gerold, whilst Prince Lewyn and Ser Barristan kept the calm within the courtyard. Others joined them, summoned by the king himself. The Storm Lord slouched against the far wall, the knight of skulls and kisses beside him, equally informal. Lord Tyrell sat in the opposite corner, with Lord Redwyne beside him. Four of the knights to have excelled in the lists were present too, them being Sers Jaremy Rykker, Bryce Caron, Brynden Tully, and Lord Royce. Rhaegar was served by his squire, Myles Mooton, who stood behind his lord.  </p><p>“What if he had gone for my son, not these Freys. Would you white cloaks have acted then, or carried on standing beside?” </p><p>Aerys’ wroth turned on Gerold now, confronting the White Bull, even though he stood only slightly above half the Hightower. Gerold did not flinch away, but nor did he reflect any anger or upset at the king’s wild accusations.  </p><p>“Which man even allowed him to joust. Command that the master of revels be put under lock and key, so I may try him for treason. This hedge knight has shamed me, and all who allowed it should be punished.” </p><p>In the aftermath of the ride of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, many of the commons had called for him once more, as he had shamed three highborn knights for behaviour that many of them resented. Some had spoken of the wanton ways of highborn knights and lords, taking any woman they chose, and often begetting them with child, whilst others had told tales of drunken brawls and the damage they had caused. Two men had been fool enough to suggest that maybe this mystery knight was the answer to the mad king that sat the Iron Throne. Both had been seized, and would likely lose their heads for their claims.  </p><p>Such a response had inspired the anger of the king, who thought that it had been the knight’s plan to inspire rebellion amongst the commons. Like as not it had been some squire that the three boys had wronged, who had somehow got lucky with his strikes.  </p><p>“Which of you brave knights and lords would answer my call, and serve me better than my fool son, and my paper shields? Baratheon? Tully? Royce? Answer the call of your king!” </p><p>It was the Storm Lord that slouched forward, taking a knee before the king. Robert Baratheon was a brutish hulk of a man, as brawny as he was boisterous. He wore his chainmail still, though his helm was gone. He lowered his gaze to the floor, a wise decision, as Aerys despised eye contact.  </p><p>“Storm’s End has stood behind the dragon since the days of the Conquest, your grace. I will fight for you this day. This knight shall not escape my men. They are strong, leal, and persistent.” </p><p>Richard Lonmouth joined his liege lord at the king’s feet, and they were soon joined by Jaremy Rykker and Bryce Caron.  </p><p>“I will speak with my friends through the Crownlands, and see what they know of this false knight, your grace. House Rykker owes you a debt we can never owe. I shall not fail you, not this day.” </p><p>“You have the blessing of the king then, Ser Jaremy. Serve me with honour, and discover this traitor. Now, begone, and let me speak further with my whelp of a son and my knighted fools.” </p><p>The others left the king’s company then, disappearing to serve his whims and wills, as unstable as they were. Ser Jaremy had his favour now, for sure, but in a few days he may well be burned at stake, a sign of the mad king’s fickleness, and further proof for Rhaegar’s claim. When they were gone, the king once again turned on his son.  </p><p>“How could you play the fool so, Rhaegar? Did you think this traitor some mock knight? Did he amuse you, as your harp does? He is a threat, and you allowed it. Were you not my son...” </p><p>The king trailed off, leaving his threats in the air. The white knights of the Kingsguard were sworn to protect the dragon, Arthur thought, so what would they do if the father turned on the son? Which should they protect, or should they stand by, limp and useless, as if the cock on a eunuch?  </p><p>“The knight served no harm, father. He put some upstart knights in their places. I-” </p><p>“I have heard quite enough of what you think!” </p><p>The wild anger in the king’s eyes, dilated and pale, was enough to warn Rhaegar of pushing the point further, and so he left it, biting his tongue, albeit reluctantly. He cut a weak figure matched to his father, Arthur had to confess. Rhaegar was respectful of his seniority, and so did not raise a glove to him, not here. Few would be the men who could take such strain without lashing out, yet Rhaegar did. The king’s words cut deep, and were as sharp as the swords that cut scabs into him when sat upon the Iron Throne.  </p><p>“Should I set you aside for your brother? He would not show folly enough to tolerate treason! The bastard knight would have been strung up as soon as he dare show his face, had it been him sat in that seat. Yet you, a man grown, saw no such threat? What child did I raise?” </p><p>Each of his brothers in white stood uncomfortably, awkwardly watching on, and Arthur wondered if they too were wondering what should be done if the king did turn on the prince. Could a white sword raise his hand against any member of the royal house? The king may be mad and irrational, yet he still sat the Iron Throne, and it was still to him that their vows were sworn, but Prince Rhaegar was the future of the realm, and such crimes as the king accused him were folly, brought forth by paranoia.  </p><p>He supposed that he had, in a way, made up his mind on the issue when he had agreed to support Rhaegar’s endeavours for change. He had never planned on physically turning on Aerys, but maybe it would come to that. Still, he hoped he would not have to, for he knew which side the White Bull would take, sure enough.  </p><p>“Were you all distracted by the pagaentry, or your own quests for glory? Am I to be protected by children, who cannot put aside their own selfishness for the oaths they swore?? Varys was right. My white cloaks are incompetent fools!” </p><p>He had turned his rage back on them by then, and Rhaegar shot Arthur a look as his father raged, and did not watch. There was concern there, but also an urgency. He wanted none to move against the king, and so they must all keep their temper, as he had.  </p><p>“You had best atone for your failure, and find this mystery knight today, or else I will have all your cloaks, and then your heads for the pikes of the Red Keep. Be gone, and leave me to myself!” </p><p>The king’s mutters followed them out of the room, as Rhaegar closed the door behind them. Before the prince left, however, his father grabbed him by the shoulder, and harshly whispered dome words into his ear. The spittle was still evident when they regrouped further down the corridor. He turned to Gerold first, no words shared about the king’s tantrum, instead treating the matter with a serious tone.  </p><p>“You and Ser Jonothor join Barristan and Lewyn in the courtyard, Gerold. Search the grounds thoroughly, and the kitchens, too. The smallfolk may be harbouring him from us. Me, Oswell, and Arthur will search the castle, with Lord Walter. If you find him, bring him to me, first. I think my father needs some time to calm himself before making any decisions.” </p><p>Gerold grunted his acceptance of the plan, and disappeared down the corridor. When they were gone, Rhaegar turned to the two of them.  </p><p>“I have no intention of searching this castle for this unknown jouster. Os, you will talk to your brother. Convince him to lie for me, should he be asked. It should not be hard, now Ser Jaremy has made his brother’s intentions clear. One of your nephews will be given Duskendale, should Walter continue to follow us leally.” </p><p>Rhaegar clapped Oswell in a bear’s embrace, before letting him disappear into the corridors of Harrenhal. Lastly, the silver prince turned to him.  </p><p>“My father knows. That fucking spider of his must have heard something. He told me that he knows. He hears whispers, and that traitors will burn. What do we do, Arthur?” </p><p>Arthur had thought it dangerous that the king had implied that he knew of treason within the Kingsguard, but this was more definitive. Relation between father and son was poor enough as it was, but if it was true that Aerys knew anything certain, then maybe his decision would need be made sooner than he would have liked.  </p><p>During the Dance of the Dragons, where Targaryen had fought Targaryen in vicious, bloodthirsty combat, there had been two knights of the white cloaks, the brothers Cargyll, Arryk and Erryk, who had faced that choice. The brothers had chosen opposite sides, and ended up slain, each by the other’s hand. Did he have the strength to kill Jon? Gerold? Even the young Jaime was his brother in white. Waging war with them had never been part of the deal.  </p><p>“You cannot panic now, my prince. You owe that to Elia and your children. Your father believes half the kingdom conspires against him. His ravings are that of a madman. He knows nothing.” </p><p>The prince nodded at that, though his eyes carried something of the wild panic that Arthur had so often seen in his father’s. He could not hide that from him. He knew the quandary that Rhaegar found himself in. Could he truly wage a war and slay his father? So far, his plotting had been little more than preparing for his own ascension to the throne. He had the backing of many lords, should war break out by chance, but it was not his preferred scenario, as it would be for nobody. The kinslayer was the most accursed of men, and a kingslayer was little better.  </p><p>“This mystery knight is a champion of the smallfolk. If my father butchers him for them to see then who knows the chaos that will ensue. We must find him first, Arthur.” </p><p>The prince’s words held sense to them, and suggested he had relaxed slightly, into a more measured approach, willing to think of his actions, and distract himself from the worry that Aerys had brought him.  </p><p>“The knight wore a weirwood upon his shield, so he must hold the gods of the North. Walter’s men already searched Harrenhal’s godswood, but they found nothing, but there are keeps aplenty that have been vacated, for their lords and their knights have ridden to the tourney, with their retinue in tow. Mayhaps the mystery knight would retreat to one such place, to one that still holds a godswood, to thank their gods.” </p><p>Few lords in the south still held the ancient gods of the weirwoods, but many keeps still held a godswood, as a sign of tradition. Harrenhal’s was large and spralling, as everything about the castle was, but others would be smaller. Maybe the prince’s idea held some merit.  </p><p>“You cannot be seen riding from the castle, not after what your father said. It would be seen as you making your escape.” </p><p>“True enough. Very well. Fetch Myles, and give him a steed. Have him ride east. Richard can distract the Storm Lord well enough. I will get Jon to ride north for me, and you shall head west. It may raise some suspicion, but little enough. Should you find this knight, you will instruct him to travel for Darry, where I shall meet with him after all this is done. Do you understand?” </p><p>Arthur nodded, and the prince kissed him tenderly upon the forehead, bidding him to go swiftly, and so he did.  </p><p>He found Myles Mooton in the courtyard, parading before the younger squires, a sword of steel in his hand. The boy was brash and brazen, with a fierce will and forceful strength. He was lean more than he was large, but already did not have the look of a squire. He would be knighted within the year, Arthur suspected, likely by the prince’s own hand, which would be a great honour.  </p><p>He dispatched the boy eastwards quickly enough, on a black mare, that bore him comfortably, and with sword and shield for his journeys, and a skin of wine, too, for his troubles. Rhaegar had said that he would dispatch Connington himself, so Arthur felt no surprise when he saw the Griffin Lord hurriedly rushing from the main gates of the keep, straight for the stables. The lord looked fierce, a grim scowl upon his rigid features. He did not lack for looks, but there was too much pain there, and it showed itself all too often.  </p><p>Arthur was saddling his own horse, when a great, booming voice ruptured his own bubble of silence. He turned to the speaker, and found the wild wolf, Brandon Stark, stood before him.  </p><p>“You looking to ride away, Dayne? Scared that my lance may draw yours in the lists? Or on some simple errand for your princeling?” </p><p>The Stark did not hide the snideness to his words, speaking them with derision, and ignoring any semblance of keeping their words private. A few eyes had already turned to their interaction, many of whom Arthur had been hoping to avoid. The spider would have his eyes here, too. It would do Rhaegar little good if the king knew of what was occuring.  </p><p>“The prince desires to ride the tracks of the Riverlands this eve, Lord Stark. I am merely checking for bandit traps and outlaw encampments.” </p><p>Stark took a few steps closer, so that there was little space between them. Arthur noticed the strong lines to his long face, and the way his nose had disjointed slightly. What he noticed most of all was the fire to his eyes, such as would met the ice of even the harshest of winters. He had never appreciated before the intensity of the Northern warrior. Mayhaps it had never surfaced upon their previous meetings.  </p><p>“The prince would do well to visit Springwood, to the west of here, and pray before the heart tree there. Maybe then the Old Gods would guide him to the wisdom he so clearly lacks.” </p><p>Brandon pushed past him then, and Arthur watched him go, incredulity in his eyes. He did not lack for nerve, he could give him that, but maybe he had given him a clue, shrouded by design. Could he know the identity of the Knight of the Laughing Tree? Or had he merely concluded the same thing as Rhaegar? </p><p>He realised then the difficult situation the Starks must be in. The wroth of the king was evident, and those that had witnessed it first-hand would have spread the news by now. The mystery knight was clearly of the North, and it would not be too long until the king’s paranoia turned on Winterfell, wondering if it had been some ploy to undermine him by the ambitious Lord Rickard, which maybe it had been.  </p><p>He asked one of the grooms for directions to Springwood, and he obliged pleasantly enough. A few silver stags were exchanged, to ensure his discretion, and then Arthur left, on the back of his own plain white courser.  </p><p>The dirt tracks of the Riverlands were winding and complex, and this one soon took him into the woodlands just east of the mighty fortress. He slowed his pace as he did, as some branches hung low, and, in line with his words to Stark, bandits were a distinct possibility. Broken men would have come, in the hope of catching some lordling off guard, as he rode away when all was done, yet no such men disturbed him.  </p><p>A few of the paths wound back on themselves, and, after an hour and a half of riding, he eventually reached a small, abandoned fort, little more than a motte wall, and a slightly raised keep. The gates had long since been pulled away, and the gateway instead hung open and bare, like a cavernous maw, waiting to pull him in. The sense of dread washed over him, though he knew not what had happened here.  </p><p>A darkness hung in the air, a pall from which he could not escape. He dismounted, tying his horse to a tree, before marching through the gap in the wall. His white cloak fluttered behind him, almost mocking the shadows that surrounded them, a pale white beacon in a sea of gloom. Something had happened here, of that he was sure, and yet nothing would change the realm as much as what was about to happen, though to him, that was unknown.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Missing Stark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In the aftermath of the ride of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Howland Reed, a small crannogman, and newfound friend to the Stark children, searches for the youngest, Benjen, across the tourneyfields of Harrenhal.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The clamour of the camp was cacophonous, the tourneyfields awash with accusations, and suspicion cast on any and all that had access to armour and the stables. The king’s words may have been spoken in private, behind a locked door deep within the keep, but they were soon public knowledge all the same, the aftermath of the vicious spread of gossip. Few focused upon the shame cast upon the dragon prince, but instead thought of the reward that could be won by the man that satiated the king’s anger.  </p><p>The storm lord, Robert Baratheon, led one party in such a quest, and his retinue of young storm lords and knights swarmed across the castle in his name. Two Estermonts had seized a suspect groom upon the battlements, whilst Gawen Wylde had led a party of young knights in sweeping the kitchens. Clashes had already occurred between Baratheon’s men and those of the Houses Rykker, Rosby, Hogg, and Buckwell, who were led by valiant Ser Jaremy. They had taken root in the stalls surrounding the tourney grounds, ransacking vendor stands, believing that the smallfolk would be hiding their mysterious hero.  </p><p>Other ambitious lords had surfaced. The rose lord had offered twenty golden dragons to the man that brought him the knight, whilst Lord Blount had gone so far as to offer his daughter’s hand to the man that avenged his honour, though the girl was said to be less than comely, so few worked for his reward. None searched as fiercely as Hosteen Frey, the soiled tourney knight whose dignity had been so incredibly stolen, and who even now cursed any Northman he came across. He rampaged across the castle grounds, his brother Aenys desparately trying to reduce his rage, but failing. </p><p>They eyes of many had fallen upon the Northern lords, and suggestions of treason were bandied around liberally. Some thought the knight may be Lord Mormont’s son, but he was a man grown, and at Bear Isle, ruling in his father’s stead. Eyes next turned to Lord Ryswell, who had two sons of the right age to be the mystery knight. Lord Ryswell announced that any man that dared lay hands on his sons and name them traitor would swiftly lose the hand, whether they be knight or lord or pauper. No man approached his two younger sons after that.  </p><p>Howland Reed cared little for the uproar that the knight had caused. Indeed, it further served his belief that the crannogs were the one safe place in a world of madness, for they were quiet, and unadulterated by sound. Ned had left him, not long after the joust, to look for his elder brother. Lord Glover had looked for Howland for some minutes, but soon got dragged away to defend the innocence of one of his grooms, leaving Howland alone.  </p><p>He knew that none of these men were responsible. What would Lord Ryswell’s sons have known about the three squires and their knightly masters? Why would he have been so invested? No, it must be some other force. Mayhaps it was a vengeful spirit, sent south by the old gods of the forest. Yet it had spoken with human tongue, and he had not heard of such things besides. Snarks and grumkins may live beyond the Wall, but such things stayed there. Magic was gone from the south, save for in the truly old places, and this was not one of them.  </p><p>The rider had been human, and that meant there was only one possibility. He had to find Benjen.  </p><p>Not long after the ride had ended, a thought had crossed the crannogman’s mind. If he had worked out the identity of the mystery jouster, then the respective squires would have done so too, for they were the only others who knew about the fight. They would be looking for Benjen also.  </p><p>Urchins scampered around his feet as he slipped between the tents of Karstark and Umber, hearing the bellowing Greatjon within. The camp of Northmen was busier than before, with king’s men striding between the tents, confronting any young Northerner that they lay eyes upon. The brother knights of Manderly were holding off three Rosby men, using their sizeable girth to keep them held back.  </p><p>Howland paid them little mind, and disappeared further into the crowd. He hoped that Benjen would have the sense to return to the Stark tent, or that Brandon may have brought him straight there, seeing the raucous rioting that had sprung up not long after the ride. Harrenhal was awash with eager eyes, and the youngest of the Starks was just the sort they were looking for.  </p><p>Instead he found nothing. Rodrik Cassel, a household knight to Lord Rickard, told him that Ned was speaking with some lords inside, but that neither Brandon nor Benjen had returned, and that the lady Lyanna was missing too. Howland pondered for a few moments on that. Had he seen Lyanna at the lists that morning?  </p><p>Still, there was little time to think. He thanked the knight of whiskers, and [ushed his way down to the lakeshore, which lay just behind the Stark tents.  </p><p>Fishing vessels were dotted out on the God’s Eye, whose waters shimmered in the noon sun. The Isle of Faces lay barely visible, but there, the green men watching from their abode. What few fishermen there would have been along the shore had vanished, either to escape the hunting parties or to join them. It allowed him the quiet to move, though twice he spied king’s men intensely interrogating suspects. </p><p>It would not be long until one of those men wound up dead, he thought, likely face down in the God’s Eye, his bloated body left to feed the crabs, his uncaring killers left to continue in their quest. He had to find Benjen before that became him.  </p><p>He skirted away from the Frey tents, unwilling to face an encounter with the raging Hosteen. The knight may be as thick as a castle wall, but his brute strength would have broken Howland quickly in a fight, and the knight was in no mood for mercy. No, avoiding the knights of the Crossing would be the best course.  </p><p>He had passed the mighty towers of Frey as he had come south, though he had not dared cross their bridge, for the toll was extortionate, and the risk too high. Instead, he had come down from the Neck on the eastern side, through a path only known to the men of the crannogs, before heading south on foot, to the banks of the God’s Eye.  </p><p>He had heard rumours of the callous Lord of the Twins, Walder Frey. He was a weaselly man, it was said, with ambition and pride to spare, and near a hundred children. He was a man best avoided, as his son was now.  </p><p>Instead, he headed to the encampment of Rivermen, just east of the Frey tents, where the trout of Tully flew high and proud.  </p><p>He thought, maybe, that Brandon would have instead gone to his betrothed amongst the clamour, and taken his brother with him. Brandon was to wed Catelyn Tully, the young, beautiful daughter of Lord Hoster of Riverrun. She was in attendance, with her two younger siblings, and their uncle, who had jousted well in the lists. It was this man that he saw first.  </p><p>Brynden Tully was a tall man, lean and hard, a shaggy mop of auburn hair upon his head, and windburnt features. He wore his armour still, chains of mail underneath his steel breastplate, and a cloak of deep purple falling from his shoulders, looking every bit the southron knight. He was not a happy man, in that moment.  </p><p>Instead, he was shouting at two knights, one wearing a turtle upon his breast, the other a haystack on his cloak, commanding them to leave the encampment. Apparently, they had used the opportunity to rifle through the private possessions of one of his nieces. Two slender girls watched on, both with the fiery red hair of Tully, and one, the younger, he would guess, fresh from weeping, her cheeks red raw from the tears.  </p><p>“You think my nieces to be mystery knights?! Do you expect them to be hiding man’s mail and a lance amongst their underclothes, sers?” </p><p>The words were spat with a venom and ferocity that suggested the two knights were very lucky to still have their hands, so they offered vapid apologies before scurrying away, back to their lords, likely to tell bawdy stories about the Tully girls. They would be fool to, given the rage Ser Brynden was in, and yet they would be fools all the same.  </p><p>“And you, little Northern boy? Do you think to accuse my nieces also?” </p><p>The ire of the knight was turned onto Howland next, who felt as a deer when it spots the hunter knock an arrow. Brynden marched over to him, anger evident in his light blue eyes.  </p><p>“I- I do not, Ser. I look for Brandon Stark, and his youngest brother too, if he is here.” </p><p>Brynden scoffed, biting back on his words, before turning to the elder girl.  </p><p>“Have you seen Brandon since this morning, Cat?” </p><p>The girl shook her head, her jaw closed tightly firm, her eyes showing a fierceness that Howland found surprising. She did not look a warrior, and yet he suspected that this one was as brave as any Northman, in her own way. The ways of southron women were a curious mystery to him, yet perhaps she was not the simpering feline that he had assumed her to be. Cat... He would remember that name.  </p><p>“If my niece says it to be true then it is, crannogman. Your wolves are not here. Now begone, before you bring suspicion down upon the rest of us.” </p><p>So he left, partly fearing the ire and rage of the warrior, but mostly out of worry for Benjen. The two places he thought he might have gone he was not. Surely he would not be folly enough to remain at the tourneyfields, where knights run amok looking for any with the hint of a Northern accent? Howland feared it may be so.  </p><p>The purple and blue tents of the Tullys were soon left behind, replaced by those of lords that Howland did not know. He thought them to be men of the Vale, for one knight wore a winged helm. He knew enough history to know that as an Andal design. He was left untroubled by the knights of the Vale, and so moved on.  </p><p>Many of the sights, sounds, and smells that he had marvelled at the day before had been replaced by the clamour and commotion. Vendors had retreated from their stalls, taking the things of value they had, to avoid the search parties, who were keen to find more than just mystery knights. The smell of cooking sausages had been replaced by an odour of sweat, as men ran back and forth in the heat of noon. Howland covered his nose with his cloak, to save his nostrils the pain.  </p><p>The tourney fields were surprisingly quiet. Like as not, the whirlwind of seekers had already passed through, and they left a trail of destruction in their wake.  </p><p>The seats of the high lords had been damaged, whilst several barriers had been pulled down, also. Piles of hay had been strewn across the course, so as to make sure no small men hid away in the haystacks, and the high seat, where the silver prince had sat just that morning, had mysteriously disappeared. Aside for a few grooms doing their best to clear the mess, the place was empty.  </p><p>Or so he thought, before he heard the frightened yelp.  </p><p>He rushed to the noise, his legs short, but they carried him swiftly, and it felt like he barely touched the ground in those moments. The sound had come from behind the stables, and so he went to there.  </p><p>He was met with a sight most disheartening.  </p><p>Benjen Stark lay sprawled prone across the floor, on his front, and his arm out in front of him, unmoving, save for the faint tremors of his chest as he still took in air. Over him, hulked three boys, who seemed larger than the day before, greedy looks upon their pig faces. At the centre of the trio stood Willamen, the leader, Benjen’s wet, sticky blood still evident upon the knuckles of his clenched fist.  </p><p>Howland stepped forward, though he was unsure as to why. He was quick, and could maybe dodge the attacks of one of these squires, but three on one was no fair fight, and Willamen was near a man grown. It was only then that the Frey boy noticed him.  </p><p>“Two for the price of one, boys. We got the Stark bitch’s brother, cowering in some hay, and the frog boy to boot. Meryn, get your knife out. Let’s see if this one bleeds red.” </p><p>The boy on the left drew a fierce blade, small, yet sharp, and quick to move. Howland had nothing to hand to counter it, save for his own wits, and they were fast failing him.  </p><p>“You stand over the body of my liege lord’s son, a knife in hand. How would that look, should someone come by?” </p><p>Willamen scoffed at that.  </p><p>“We will be long gone by the time that anyone finds you two. There ain’t anybody in this camp would believe a filthy frog fucker like you over any of us.” </p><p>An idea hit Howland then. The Freys may not fear the crannogmen, for what damage could they do to the Twins, but the strength of Lord Walder was not so insurmountable... </p><p>“My liege’s sons would believe me, Brandon and Eddard. Brandon is to wed Catelyn Tully, of Riverrun, your sire’s own liege lord. What would he do if he heard how you harmed his brother, I wonder? Surely House Frey would crumble against the armies of both Winterfell and Riverrun.” </p><p>That caused Willamen cause to think, his eyes betraying his bloodlust, but he was no fool, and he knew the truth to Howland’s words. He would have heard tales of Brandon Stark’s anger, and his love of his family. Could he risk bringing that down upon his family? </p><p>“Keep your fingers then, frog boy. We dealt justice to the boy that shamed our masters, sure enough.” </p><p>The boys ran then, escaping into the tents and stalls of the canvas camp that surrounded the brooding mass of Harrenhal, leaving Howland alone, save for Benjen.  </p><p>“That was very brave of you.” </p><p>The voice caught him off-guard, and he turned hastily. He recognised the woman stood before him from last evening’s celebrations. She had danced with Ned. He had not thought it then, but in that moment he saw her beauty.  </p><p>Her raven hair tumbled past her shoulders, a simple headband worn across her brow, whilst her eyes sat a haunting lilac. Her skin was pale, though not unhealthily so and her form lithe, her breasts small, but not unpleasing. He gulped down his thoughts, and tried not to think on them. She stood a few inches taller than he, and wore a purple gown, made of silks and satins. He did not know her name, but he desired to. Her voice was melodic in a way, as if a tune that he had long forgotten, yet always loved.  </p><p>“Three on one is never a fair fight, especially when the three are armed, and the one is not. I must know your name, brave one, for I know it not.” </p><p>He stumbled over his words, before straightening himself. He should not be affected by such trifles. It was unseemly.  </p><p>“How- Howland Reed. That is my name.” </p><p>She raised a delicate eyebrow at that, a faint smile playing upon her thin lips.  </p><p>“You are of the crannogs, then? I thought as much. You have the deep, green eyes that I have heard much of. I heard that those eyes can see much and more that our own regular eyes cannot.” </p><p>“Only for those that are gifted. I am one, some of the time.” </p><p>The gift of greensight was a curious one. Some say it was bestowed at random, whilst others told tales of a crow with three eyes, who blessed those who were close to death. When he had been small, he had been attacked by a lizard lion, and near died. He remembered no three-eyed crow, and yet from that day he had been blessed with the gift.  </p><p>He was lost in her presence for a few moments, drowning in a desire to know more of this mysterious woman, who bore such beauty and appreciation, and who thought him brave. Then he remembered Benjen.  </p><p>“Help me with him.” </p><p>The woman nodded, and the two of them rushed to the boy. He was unconscious, that was clear enough, blood dripping from his nose, where it had been broken by Willamen’s punch. There was little more damage, so they thought it best to wait for him to awaken. Howland was short, and she was a woman, so moving him was no option.  </p><p>“You told me your name, Howland Reed, so I think it fitting that I tell you mine. You may call me Ashara Dayne, of Starfall.” </p><p>He thought for a moment that the name of her home was fitting, for there was something tragic about a falling star, that could not halt its descent, and her eyes held that haunting tragedy well. Yet such a sight was also beautiful, and it could not be denied that she was not that, yet she also spoke with a humility and a kindness that supported that further. It was not just that. He sensed the same bravery in her that he had seen in Catelyn Tully. She was no simpering milkmaid. </p><p>“Your brother is the Sword of the Morning, Arthur Dayne, of the Kingsguard.” </p><p>She shrugged her shoulders slightly.  </p><p>“I prefer to think that the Sword of the Morning’s sister is me, but I suppose it is all the same. Why did you risk your own safety for him?” </p><p>It was his turn to shrug, feeling slightly uncomfortable under the line of questioning.  </p><p>“He is a friend, and did the same for me when we first met. It was no bravery, but honour, and the right thing to do.” </p><p>Ashara Dayne did not respond straight away, instead taking a few moments to study him. He tried not to clench his knuckles, as he sometimes did when he was inspected, and remain calm and comfortable.  </p><p>“I suspect that it is both, Howland Reed. You showed much bravery for one so slight of frame. I will not leave you until he wakes and is safe, so you have another witness to the event here. Now, would you tell me stories of your home, and I will tell you tales of my own. I wish to see how different the crannogs of the North truly are from the hot sands of Dorne.” </p><p>He settled down then, and talked to her of lizard lions and bogs, of wandering castles, and of the magic that ran in their blood. She seemed enraptured, and he smiled, for she seemed so enthralled by him. He had not thought to find this when he came south, yet find it he had.  </p><p>He wanted to know more about Ashara Dayne.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Quiet Wolf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Of the four wolves of Winterfell, the most reserved is Eddard Stark. He looks to the antics of his three siblings, and hopes to help keep all of them alive, and away from the wrath of the king.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddard Stark strode through the tents, sidestepping as search parties barrelled past, though none stopped to question him. The long face and brown hair of the Starks were recognisable, and no man dared to anger Lord Rickard by harming one of his kin, let alone risk the wroth of the wild wolf, Eddard’s elder brother. A few hours had passed since the start of the uproar. Ned had been looking for his sister, but he had not found her. He feared that the men of disrepute that had so quickly turned to the southron lords may choose to target a vulnerable Northern girl. Still, Lyanna had the wolfsblood, and, in her own way, was as wild as Brandon. Any man trifling with her would best be prepared. </p><p>The Northern camp was surrounded by barricades now, enforced by men of the North. They were hardy, clad in boiled leather breastplates, and all wore beards, some down as far as their waist. They bore the sigils of his father’s bannermen; Mormont, Umber, Manderly, Flint, Ryswell, and Glover mostly, but some from the Wulls and Liddles of the mountain clans, and Ned spied one giant of a man that bore the golden keys of House Locke. Two Mormont men let him through the gates, wordlessly inclining their head to him. They were fierce looking men, and Ned spotted some Estermont men eyeing them nervously from the shadows. He would need talk with Robert about keeping his men in line.  </p><p>Ser Rodrik Cassel, his father’s master-at-arms, was waiting at the centre of the temporary courtyard set up inbetween the tents of the Northern lords. Rodrik was a strong man, shorter than most, but well built, and held a fierceness to his square jaw. His most striking feature were the wild whiskers that he wore strapped underneath his chin.  </p><p>“Were the defenses your idea, Rodrik? They are quite impressive. I was not expecting the men to be marshalled so quickly.” </p><p>“They were Lord Mormont’s idea, Ned. These southron men kept entering tents. Mormont and Dustin saw to stop that. The others followed them quick enough. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Brandon since it started.” </p><p>Ned was not surprised. His brother was a warrior at heart, and would not be seen to hide away behind balustrades. Besides, few men would think him to be the mystery knight, who had been shorter, and clearly younger. Ned had his suspicions on who the rider had been, but he did not dare speak them, for fear that they became truth.  </p><p>“Unity is good. The king will see sense soon enough, we must hope. They call him mad, I hear, but even one such must see the folly in these actions, all for some child playing at horse.” </p><p>The look on Rodrik’s face was grave. He was fifteen years Ned’s senior, and a seasoned warrior, and anointed knight to boot. His senses were very rarely wrong, and Ned trusted him.  </p><p>“I have heard talk in the taverns of the madness of this king, and the ambitions of the prince. One child may be all it takes to set father against son, Ned. We must be ready, should the situation worsen. If Brandon is not here, well, the men will look to you in your father’s stead.” </p><p>Ned felt uncomfortable with that pressure being placed on him. He had always been happy to be the second son. Brandon would take Winterfell, and serve as Warden of the North, with some southron bride, and sons of his own, whilst Ned would serve his duty, at some holdfast that he could call home, as bannerman to his brother. Such was the world of the second son. Ned did not want the attention foisted upon Brandon, nor did he crave the wanton way that women looked upon his elder brother. He was fine being seen as the quiet, brooding brother, stood silent at the side next to the roaring fire that was Brandon Stark, the eldest son of Lord Rickard of Winterfell.  </p><p>The eyes of many had turned to Ned when they had ridden south, twice, in fact. The first, Brandon rode off into the Barrowlands for three days, eventually returning with Lord Dustin in tow, a fiery figure in his own right. The second, Brandon left them for Riverrun, so that he may ride with his betrothed from the Tully seat to the foreboding fortress of Harrenhal. Lyanna had been with him then, which had taken some of the burden, for the menfolk listened to her well enough, and there had been fewer Northern lords riding with them those days.  </p><p>It had been men of Cerwyn and Cassel, Mormont and Hornwood, and Glover and Branch that had ridden from Winterfell, with their party joined by that of Barrowtown and Rillhall soon after. Houses Manderly, Locke, and Karstark had come by sea, docking their ships at Maidenpool, and riding the rest of the way. The few men that had come from Flint, Liddle, Wull, and Umber had come in their own retinues, though no lords had ridden with them. Some had sent their sons, or even grandsons, in their place, eager to be represented at the largest gathering that Westeros had seen since the Great Council of 101.  </p><p>“Battle will not be fought in the canvas city, Rodrik, have no fear of that. Have you seen my other brother, or Lyanna? I could find neither, and I fear for their safety.” </p><p>Rodrik shook his head grimly, and ned cursed. He had hoped that either would have the sense to return here, where they could be protected.  </p><p>“Then news of this mystery knight. If he is one of ours then someone must have knowledge of him.” </p><p>“If they do, then they keep the information close to their chest, Ned. Lord Dustin has been looking, and found nothing, save for some armour stolen from the chests of Lord Hornwood, large enough for a squire alone. No man could have worn such.” </p><p>Ned remembered the armour the mystery knight had been wearing. It had been castle forged steel, no doubt, but small, for his body, and loose at that. Perhaps it could have been meant for a squire. </p><p>“And Lord Hornwood’s men? Are they accounted for?” </p><p>Rodrik’s grimace did not fill Ned with hope, but the knight spoke, a sullenness to his tone, and an untrusting glint to his eyes, as he looked around them.  </p><p>“Lord Hornwood says his men are beyond reproach. Besides, he brought only one steed fit for riding in the lists, and his son and heir was astride it for the jousting. The steed did not come from his stables.” </p><p>Such made sense. Why would a Hornwood man use his own lord’s armour if he cared so much for secrecy that he fled the scene after his ride? It would be the act of a fool. Hornwood’s tent was on the edge of the Northern camp. It would be easy pickings for any fleet-footed sneakthief looking for Northern armour to accompany the weirwood shield.  </p><p>“I should speak with Dustin about his efforts, then, and Mormont, too, should my brother not show himself. Have them come to my tent, with one of Hornwood’s men, too.” </p><p>Rodrik bowed his head, before striding off. Ned watched him go, his eyes anxious and weary. Rodrik was as loyal to the wolf of Winterfell as any, but his nephew, Jory, was of an age to be the mystery knight. Mayhaps Rodrik had thought the same, and that was the reason for his terseness. Jory was a good lad, a year younger than Ned, and he was a good rider, as the Knight of the Laughing Tree had been.  </p><p>The Stark tent had been tidied since they left for the lists that morning. The crannogman’s makeshift bed lay to the side, and Ned’s own not far from it. Instead, he closed the cloth barrier, so that their meeting would not be disturbed by his worn sheets. </p><p>Ned had already spoken with Daryn Hornwood since his audience with the king, and yet it was he that came first, serving as his father’s representative. Next came Lord Mormont, joined by Ethan Glover, who was Brandon’s elder squire. Ethan was a boy of fifteen, and yet was sheared bald, a sign of rebellion against the rules of his lord uncle. Mormont was a bear of a man, tall and staunch, with a greying beard of stubble, and a tensed jaw. Ned did not fear him, for he knew the man, but others would be. The last to arrive was Willam Dustin, the fiery haired Lord of Barrowton, joined by his good-father, Rodrik Ryswell.  </p><p>Dustin was young, for a northern lord. He was a few years older than Ned, of an age with Brandon, but was taller than any Stark. His hair was a flame-red, and fell past his shoulders, tumbling down his back. He wore mail underneath his shirt, and a wicked-sharp sword at his waist. His nose was crooked, from where it had been broken as a child, and his eyes an intense brown, not deep and mellow, but almost copper. They were the eyes of a warrior.  </p><p>His good-father was little alike him. Rodrik Ryswell was fierce, in his own way, but short and cumudgeonly, a miser when it came to spending what little coin the Rillhall had. He was feared swordsman, nor was he skilled with a lance, but he was proud and powerful, and a friend to the Boltons of the Dreadfort, who were conspicuously absent from the tourney itself. Ned did not trust him, but he had need to respect him.  </p><p>“We are gathered then, Stark. What does the wolf call us to do?” </p><p>Dustin spoke the words, taking his place opposite Ned, Ryswell at his right side. Hornwood stood beside Ned, warily eyeing the Barrow Lord, whilst Mormont and Glover stood to the side, the bear’s eyes watching the young pups dance.  </p><p>“I take an interest in this hunt, Dustin, as would my father, if he were here. This knight is one of our own. He should not be tracked like some wounded doe. The direwolf is the greatest hunter known to man. No turtle lord shall beat me to this prize.” </p><p>A few moments passed, and Ned was worried that Dustin would not accept the response, yet eventually the young lord bowed his head, and adjusted his stance, clasping his hand behind his back, his legs stood apart. Ned turned to Mormont. </p><p>“Lord Jeor, what more do we know of this Knight of the Laughing Tree?” </p><p>The bear spoke in gruff tones, his voice hard and harsh, almost weathered by the bitter winds of Bear Isle.  </p><p>“We know nothing of this boy, for a boy he must be, if this missing armour truly is his. His steed is gone, and none we spoke to said they saw his face.” </p><p>Ryswell chimed in at that point.  </p><p>“Then they were paid to say so, surely? We cannot trust the words of grooms and servants.” </p><p>“With what coin could he have paid?” </p><p>Ned interjected, his voice stern and sombre. </p><p>“You saw his armour as well as I, Lord Ryswell. It was dented and old, stolen from some loose chest. If he had coin to pay off witnesses, then why not clad himself in armour proper? No. This boy is from no wealthy clan. That much is clear.” </p><p>“You think the rider is of the smallfolk?” </p><p>The bear asked him. </p><p>“Who is to say that he is even of the North?” </p><p>A dark look passed over Dustin’s face, a grimness to his voice, and a scowl to his lips and jaw. Ned saw him as a warrior moreso in that moment, dark, destructive, and deadly. He was surpised when it was young Ethan Glover that piped up in response.  </p><p>“Did you not see his shield? He bore the weirwood as his sigil.” </p><p>Dustin lightly shrugged his shoulders, and his nostrils flared slightly, though he spoke with no anger.  </p><p>“There are other families who still yet hold the old gods in the south, the Blackwoods of Raventree, and others beside, though they do it more privately. Perhaps the boy came from one of them. Or perhaps there is another option.” </p><p>Dustin took a step towards him then, his eyes dark and purposeful, a slight panic to them, but nothing out of control.  </p><p>“You must have sensed it, Ned. Your brother has.” </p><p>The moment clawed at him. It was the way Dustin looked at him, intensity etched upon his face, anxiousness mixed with anger. Ned knew what he meant, though he did not dare speak it. It was an ice cold nausea that set upon him, and he broke it by turning away from the young lord.  </p><p>“Continue the search, Lord Mormont. Take Lord Ryswell as your second. Ethan, find my brothers, the both of them if you can. With luck, Ben will be with Brandon. Go.” </p><p>The three left the tent, Hornwood slipping away too, leaving just Willam Dustin with him. The Lord of Barrowton did not budge, standing stoic and firm, and so Ned turned to him.  </p><p>“You have felt it Ned, haven’t you? The wroth of the king is legend, but the madness he has shown even now surpasses that. He is scared.” </p><p>Ned had felt that, and heard it, too, not firsthand, but from the reports from Daryn. The king was here for fear of the prince. He had grown paranoid, fearing treason around all corners, and a frightened dragon was no foe worth having. The way Aerys had spoken to the crown prince, however... It was more than just fear. There had been an iciness between them before, at the celebrations, and the raising of Lannister to the white cloaks. If the dragons were at war again... </p><p>“He fears his son. Why is that important now?” </p><p>“The son fears the father, too. They look to the support of the realm, and both look to your father. He will be good-father to Storm’s End and Riverrun soon enough, and to whomever you wed, and Ben, too. He swings the realm. Who is to say that the silver prince does not seek to drive a dagger between your father and the king? Or worse, that he looks for the outbreak of war to further his own schemes. We are in the south, Ned, and they do not hold our gods, nor our honour.” </p><p>Did Dustin speak out of the same paranoia that consumed the king, or was there worthwhile truth to his bleak words? Would Prince Rhaegar, who had sung so beautifully and sadly the night before, drive the realm to war over his own ambition? Men of the south had long viewed the North with contempt. He did not doubt they would be capable of using it as their pion, and yet this? Was this not a step too far?  </p><p>Politics were not his world, as was true for most of the North. Men lived their lives simply and well, in the eyes of their weirwoods, and their gods of the forest, not concerning themselves with ambition and power plays. There were no thrones for them to wage war for.  </p><p>“We find the rider and the truth with them, Dustin. Do not concern yourself with fear of shadows.” </p><p>Dustin’s nostrils flared then, though Ned knew him well enough to see the anger was muted. He would not harm his liege lord’s son in a rage, nor would he shame himself by throwing a child’s tantrum in response to criticism.  </p><p>“It is not just shadows, Ned. Your brother sees it. That’s why he isn’t here. I have no love for Brandon Stark, but he sees the villains here true enough.” </p><p>Ned looked down at the ground, his brow furrowed, and his eyes scanning for some sort of sign. The truth was simple to him. He knew this not to be the antics of some ambitious young prineceling, or the mad paranoia of the scab-ridden king. He knew also why Lord Dustin held no fondness for his elder brother, though he would not speak of it. When Brandon was Lord of Winterfell he would need fix that relationship, but such was his own problem.  </p><p>“I know there to be no plots, Willam, because I know the name of the rider, in truth, but the fact of it scares me, for I know not if they can be protected.” </p><p>He steadied himself, a deep breath, filling his chest with air, a grimace planted upon his face as he turned his eyes back to the fire-haired lord of the barrows.  </p><p>“At first I thought him to be Benjen, who wishes for glory, and can ride well enough, but not so well as this rider. Then my thoughts came to another, entirely different possibility. I had hoped to find her myself, but I fear now that I cannot. My lord, I believe the rider to be my sister.”</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Little Crannog Boy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Having met in difficult circumstances, Ashara Dayne grows to know Howland Reed, the crannogman friend to House Stark of Winterfell, in the aftermath of both the ride of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and the attack on Benjen Stark.</p>
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    <p>She listened eagerly as he spoke of his homeland. He told her first of the creatures. He called them lizard-lions, beasts as deadly in the water as they were on land, with rows of vicious, razor-sharp fangs, and taloned claws capable of tearing a man to shreds. Some men, he said, the very bravest, knew how to tame them, and rode them into battle, calling down the curses of the old forest gods upon their enemies, though he had never seen such happen. He spoke also of the wisps, ghostly creatures that haunted the mires and marshes of his home. He told her the old tales, of how they were the souls of those that had lost themselves in the mud, doomed never to leave. They were flaming creatures, he said, as if the fire of the soul given form.  </p><p>When he spoke of his homeland, his eyes flashed green, a sparkle of pride and love. He missed them, she could tell, and felt foreign in these lands so far south. She could understand that, though for different reasons.  </p><p>There were no fiery ghouls at Starfall, nor creatures as large as a grown man in the waters of the Torrentine, yet Dorne held its own ways, as with the men of the Neck, and the ways of the Rhoynar were foreign to their Andal neighbours. Here, women talked of her husband-to-be incessantly, as if it was all that mattered in the world. Behind her back, they whispered about her maidenhead, thinking that she could not hear. Some said that she had already lost it, for she was Dornish, after all. That would explain why she was not eager to wed. Others more thought she held it still, but would only give it to the man that could best her brother in single combat. Such was folly.  </p><p>She held it yet, that much was true, but she did not save it for some great warrior, nor for her husband neccesarily. She had just not yet chosen.  </p><p>In Starfall, as Howland Reed found with his own home, she felt more comfort in familiarity. Her brother did not push the prospect of marriage upon her, though he would have surely benefitted from such. He could have wed her to a Tyrell, or a Tully, or a Lannister, and brought much wealth and power to their family. Yet it was this very thing that stopped that. What sort of family would he be to her if he forced her to bed a man against her wishes? He did not push, for he loved her.  </p><p>“Other men say there is no beauty in the Neck, but I think different. They do not see the way the sun dapples when it falls through the autumn trees and upon the Greycrann, nor the ebbs and currents that so gently carry Greywater upon their flow. Such is beauty enough for me.” </p><p>She had heard tales of the moving castles of the Crannogmen, and Howland told her more of it. His voice was soothing. It had the same twang of the North possessed by the Starks, yet it seemed less harsh to her. Brandon was fierce and wild. His voice dared you to question him, and promised anger if you did, whilst Ned’s was cold and measured, not unfriendly, but distant. Howland’s was calm and gentle, yet passioned, and somehow welcoming. She did not quite understand it.  </p><p>“How do they move, then? These castles that you call home.” </p><p>He shrugged, his eyes sparkling at the mystery.  </p><p>“None know. Some say it is a gift from the Old Gods. Others that it is a design of the ancient men of the Neck, lost to time. The first option is favoured. Men like stories of mystics and gods, though I am not so sure.” </p><p>He spoke of his gods as fact, as if he had seen them firsthand. The Daynes of Starfall held the Faith of the Seven, and none in Dorne worshipped the ancient gods of the weirwood. She had seen the faces before, in the Godswood in Harrenhal, but also that of Storm’s End, and Runestone, when Prince Rhaegar had once visited Lord Royce. The first had been laughing, the second stern and severe. It had not scared her, but she had viewed it wearily. She could not deny that there had been power to those eyes, ancient and unforgiving. The opposite of what she now saw in their loyal disciple.  </p><p>Howland had told her that he was a hunter back home, though she could not see it. He was shorter than she, when stood straight, and though his arms were lean, his shoulders were not broad, and his frame was more wiry than toned. Perhaps he had the near imperceptible speed of Prince Oberyn with a spear, but he had little build to back that up. She suspected that even most squires at the tourney would beat him in a fight, though that just proved his bravery further. </p><p>It would be easy enough for Brandon Stark to have stood alone against those three squires, and even quiet, sullen Ned may have stood a chance, but Howland had held none, save for his wits. To be so brave... It was either an act of great courage or even greater foolishness.  </p><p>“You speak of your home with so much love, so why did you come south? Why leave it behind for Harrenhal?” </p><p>The question caused him discomfort, that was clear enough. His fingers twitched lightly, flexing, and ending up balled in a fist, though she sensed no aggression. His eyes, so intensely green, averted from hers, instead looking down to the boy lain between them, the prone Benjen Stark. </p><p>“I... My home is love, but the wider world is a stranger to me. One day, I will serve as Lord Reed, and the crannogmen shall look to me for guidance. Were that the case now, I would not have come. I could not leave them. Yet now I can, and I can get to know the world, before I am locked away from it.” </p><p>It was an odd thing, she thought. He wished to be home when he was away, and yet when he was home he wished to explore. She had never been robbed of her freedom to explore. The Red Mountains had been open to her and Arthur and Allyria, and the sand dunes of Dorne proper had been a mere trifle. When they had been little, her and Arthur had often ridden to Hellholt, or Sandstone, to dine with the Lords Vaith and Qorgyle, unaccompanied. Howland did not have this. Even in the North, the men of the crannogs were outsiders, to be viewed with mistrust.  </p><p>Gathered at Harrenhal now were lords and knights from across each of the regions of the Seven Kingdoms, from Bear Isle to Sunspear, gathered for the king and the games. Here, there were a thousand microcosms of life from across the realm, so one man could do a lifetime of travelling in just a few days. She understood now the appeal that the great tourney held for Howland Reed, who so longed for adventure.  </p><p>“If you want to know the world away from Greywater then let me help. I have travelled to many castles and keeps, dined with more lords and knights than I can remember. Ask me, and I shall tell you of the things that I have seen.” </p><p>So he did. She told him of the great majesty of the Hightower in Oldtown, of the imposing grandeur of Casterly Rock, and the roaring winds beating against the brittle cliffs at Storm’s End, and still he asked her more. Dragonstone, the Eyrie, Riverrun, and Bitterbridge. He asked about them all, and she was more than happy to oblige. Lastly, he asked her about Starfall.  </p><p>“It sits upon an island within the Torrentine, not moving, like your keeps, but safe, and home. From the top, you can see out over the glittering crests of the waves of the ocean. The waters run quickly, but a gentle pool forms just to the east, and the swimming is beautiful, the water warm and near silky to the touch.” </p><p>She had bathed in their naked before, in truth, which seemed nothing to her, though, for some reason, the thought brought a flush to her cheeks when conjured around him. It fell further when their fingers touched. She moved to jolt them away, but his followed, a gentle stroke across her ring finger, up to the tip, and then away. This time it was she who could not let him go, a tugging inside her wanting the contact to last, though she could not let it.  </p><p>Her lilac eyes flickered away from him, as his had done from her before, and instead she looked down to the dirt. She had thought Ned Stark attractive, and something about his sweet, shy gentleness had endeared her. He was a more fitting match, the sullen wolf of Winterfell. Yet she had not wanted his touch as much as she now wanted Howland Reed’s. </p><p>“My brother is Lord of Starfall, though, and he will have sons of his own. I will have no home there, soon enough.” </p><p>He hesitated, and she risked a look to him. The excitement and joy were gone from his eyes, which were now tinged with a haunting sadness. Was it pity?  </p><p>“I suppose that is the hardship women face. I am my father’s only child, and Greywater will always be my home, whether as son and heir, or as lord. You will have to find a new family, and a new home that you can love as much as Starfall.” </p><p>Was he right? She had not thought on it so. Perhaps she could happily wed Ned Stark, but would she be able to live in the cold stone of Winterfell? She barely tolerated King’s Landing, and there she was surrounded by life and song and love. Would she wither and die if tucked away in the cold heartlands of the North, so far from home and hearth?  </p><p>Of all the high seats in the realm, Winterfell was one of two she had not visited. For it and Pyke were too far removed. Neither her fatyher, nor her brother, nor Prince Rhaegar had seen fit to travel to such places, so far from their own homes. Could she, if it was for the sake of her brother and her family? </p><p>It was then that she understood the magnitude of Howland Reed being stuck in the Neck, a place that he loved dearly, without being able to leave. Would she be able to stay at Starfall all her days, never able to see the rest of the world? Perhaps, she thought, if the right person was there with her.  </p><p>“I do not think I will ever love a place as I do Starfall, but maybe love for something else can make a new place my home.” </p><p>Howland avoided her gaze again, but this time his eyes did not turn to Benjen Stark, but to his own hands. He seemed to study his palms, before angrily looking away. She was not sure what had triggered that emotion. She hoped it had not been her.  </p><p>“Tell me of your name, Howland. I have never heard it before. Is it crannog?” </p><p>Silence sat between them for a few moments. Could she have crossed a line with so simple a question? She had thought it inoffensive enough. As she started to worry, he looked back to her, the look of excitement not yet returned to his eyes, and yet, at least, much of the sadness now gone.  </p><p>“It’s an ancient name of our people. Few have born it, though, since the death of the last Marsh King, who held it as his own. He wasn’t the last, but- Well, its complicated.” </p><p>She reached out for him, her fingers brushing his, and yet this time staying, resting lightly upon the back of his hand. He didn’t shy away, but he did not meet her gaze, also. </p><p>“Tell me.” </p><p>The words were simple, spoke easily enough, and yet they calmed him. He still avoided her eyes, but a deep, pent-up breath escaped him, and his shoulders slouched slightly as he relaxed. When he spoke, it was as if he was reciting a tale that he had heard a thousand times. It didn’t have a bored cadence, but at no point did he sound like he was looking for a particular word. They rolled off his tongue, coming as naturally as her brother’s strokes and slashes when he drew Dawn. </p><p>“The Marsh Kings were rulers in name, but, in truth, commanded no more than any other man in the Neck. When the King of Winter came, riding at the head of his mighty army, the last of them turned not to his keeps, as the ancient Boltons of the Dreadfort had, nor to the gods, as had chosen the Blackwood kings of the ancient forests, but to his people. They preyed on the Stark men, hidden in plain sight, their loyalty to him as their shield. For a time it worked, but not forever.” </p><p>“In the dead of night, five of his men went to Lord Stark, and turned their swords, betraying the location of their king, in the hope of power and wealth as their prize. Within the day, the last Marsh King, my namesake, was dead, his three sons along with him. His six daughters were taken to Winterfell, as prizes of war. The eldest and fairest, Lord Stark proclaimed, would be his bride, and so the Neck came into the control of Winterfell. Who should rule it, however, was a question that needed answered.” </p><p>“The five traitors came before Lord Stark late one night, and asked for their reward. He asked them their desire, and their leader, a warrior, said they desired brides also. They wanted the five remaining daughters of the last Marsh King, and so would gain claims on his lands. Lord Stark said that the girls were spoken for, and instead arranged the five men to marry women of Winterton, and so they disappeared from history.” </p><p>“Instead of these men, the daughters were married to the five men judged to be the most loyal to the Marsh Kings. When one of these men, Arthor Reed, my ancestor, asked Lord Stark why he had rewarded men who had held their loyalty to his enemy, Lord Stark told him that he would rather reward men who held loyalty and duty to anyone, than those that held naught but dishonour and treachery. Arthor was name the Lord of Greywater Watch and the Neck, and so my house came into being. Since that day, when Arthor swore his loyalty to Winterfell, we Reeds have counted ourselves as one of the Starks most loyal vassals, for by steel, and fire, and ice, we know our duty.” </p><p>His words stopped, and he flushed slightly, no doubt realising how much he had spoken. She did not mind. His voice had a melody to it, when he lost himself in storytelling. She shuffled around the prone body between them, their hands never parting, her fingers now having wormed their way through the gaps in his, until they were sat side by side. They were so close that she could feel the warmth radiating from him.  </p><p>“So you are named for him? The king?” </p><p>He shook his head. He wasn’t as uncomfortable with the closeness between them as she had thought he might be. </p><p>“Not exactly. The name is symbolic now. Given to members of my family who should aspire to greatness. My father told me that he was visited by the Old Gods in a dream, and that they told him that when winter comes and snow falls, I would show myself to be the greatest of my kin. So he gave me the name Howland, to show how I am favoured by the gods.” </p><p>She thought on that for a few moments. It was a lot of pressure to put on a boy, just by giving him a name. Howland... Did it sound like the name of a mighty warrior? Did he have the looks of one? She could not see it, and yet... </p><p>“I can see what your gods saw then. You are very brave, Howland Reed.” </p><p>He flushed again, but did not turn away from her this time. Perhaps he was more comfortable with her, or perhaps... </p><p>“I don’t know if its bravery. Benjen saved my life once. I owed him this.” </p><p>She raised an eyebrow.  </p><p>“He saved your life? This boy?” </p><p>He told her about the attack, how Benjen and his sister, Lyanna, the she-wolf of Winterfell, had come to his defence and chased the boys away, and how he had come looking for the boy after the mystery knight. None of it dissuaded her from her belief. Howland had a special kindness to him, and a certain steel to support that.  </p><p>“The way you tell your stories... It’s enchanting.” </p><p>That seemed to please him, because it brought a smile to his face. It was a gentle smile, kind, and sweet. </p><p>“My father taught me. He said that sword may wage wars, but it is words that win them.” </p><p>She thought Howland’s father to be a wise man indeed from that. There was more that words could win, she thought, and perhaps Howland Reed did not know the power that he possessed. He was not the warrior that she was expected to lust for, nor the great lord people thought she would wed, but she had never wished to be driven by the expectations of others.  </p><p>Nor was he, it turned out, for he defied her own expectations of him when he leaned in to her. When their lips met, it was sweet, and innocent, and right.  </p><p>Howland Reed... Her little crannog boy.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Star and the Wolf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Arthur Dayne's hunt for the mysterious Knight of the Laughing Tree has brought him to the abandoned keep of Springwood, a remnant of the bygone days of First Men control over the Riverlands. Sent there by Rhaegar Targaryen, with the advice of Brandon Stark, he hopes to find some answers.</p>
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    <p>The ominous feel of Springwood did not dissipate as he passed into the ruins of the castle. A deep mist hung here, shrouding the ground in its cold, spectral embrace. He padded through it, feeling as if an invader amongst a monument to the dead, though no lichyard was this. No bodies littered the ground, and the cracks underneath his feet came from dead twigs and branches, not bones. His breaths were deep here, a fear gripping his lungs that he could not place. It seemed cold here, though it was not yet winter, and his breath came in whisps of vapour, vanishing quickly into the fog. </p><p>The keep was low, near buried under the compacted ground, and sagged deep. Its walls were covered in a layer of moss and lichen, with ivy and vines hanging from the tallest towers and turrets, no more than a foot above Arthur’s head. He tried to shake off the feel that he was being watched, though the skin upon the back of his neck prickled at every step. Something evil lay here, he knew that much, though what it was he did not know. The forest around it grew strong, yet nothing lived within the walls. It was almost as if the ground itself had been tainted by some ancient horror that had occurred here.  </p><p>It was only then that he realised his hand had been placed upon the hilt of his sword. His grip had been such that an impression of Dawn’s pommel had been placed upon his palm. He wondered how the special steel of falling star would fare against the ghosts that no doubt dwelled here. He had never tried the blade against a phantom. He suspected it would do him little good. </p><p>“I know you to be here, mystery knight. I come from Prince Rhaegar. He bares you no ill will.” </p><p>His voice sounded almost weak and timid here. The oppressive air of this place quashed the strength from his words. How could one stand up to this? He shivered. There it was again. The feeling of eyes upon his back. He turned, and yet saw nothing. Except... had that been a movement in the mist? Perhaps his eyes had been tricked, or perhaps... </p><p>No, it was not a ghost. It had like as not been a rat, or some other animal, who had made the abandoned fort their home. All the talk of the ghosts of Harrenhal had simply got into his head, making him see them where they were not. Yet still... This place felt different to the ominous presence of Harrenhal, large of which came from its sheer size. Here... Here it was almost as if the very air he breathed was oppressive, as if it still remembered the wicked deeds that had been committed here.  </p><p>This place was fear incarnate. </p><p>He unsheathed Dawn, allowing the natural, untempered shine of the blade to light his way, and as a defence, should whatever he had seen before think of him as prey. He searched the ruins first, but found nothing, save for spiders and mice. They had been undisturbed for many years, he thought. Perhaps they had even forgot what a human was, for they showed no fear of him. He supposed that any creature raised here would know fear, and he was not it. He wondered how much they understood of this place.  </p><p>Underneath the keep, a rough gaol was set, cold cells behind iron bars that had long since rusted away. He could see where the shackles had once been bolted to the wall, and he shuddered at the thought of the things that had been done here.  </p><p>Some said that the Black Cells in the Red Keep were torture enough, through the sheer fear of not knowing if you would ever feel the touch of the sun again. He had heard stories of the sky cells of the Eyrie, and the water dungeons of Pyke, where the saltwater of the sea would be allowed to lap at your feet. Somehow, this place felt worse to him. He could almost hear the screams of the condemned, begging for a fate other than the one they had met. </p><p>His fingers ran across the cold stone, and a layer of dust and dirt came up with it. If there was anyone at Springwood then they had not ventured here. Perhaps they had been too scared to. They were wiser than he, if that was the case. </p><p>The fog had levelled slightly as he stepped outside, and he was properly able to make out eh whole of the courtyard for the first time.  </p><p>The curtain walls had tumbled down in at least three places, piles of rubble having amassed, though some had clearly been spirited away by the braver brigands of the forest. Sentinels had taken root around the outer wall, though none had strayed into the centre of the yard. They stood high and firm, watching out over this place, as guardians. What were they trying to keep hidden away, he wondered?  </p><p>The ground was littered with rubble, and was uneven at the best of places. Were it not for his sureness of foot he would surely have tripped. The east side of the castle walls ended in a few outhouses. The smiths was the only recognisable one, as the firepit yet remained, though the smoke and embers had long since died out. To the west lay what Rhaegar had been dreading; the entrance to the castle godswood.  </p><p>He stepped towards it, but the trees themselves seemed to warn him away. They turned their leaves to him and swayed in the wind, a warning and threat hissing to him along the breeze. Yet still he advanced.  </p><p>It was an old place, he could tell, perhaps older than any he had ever set foot in. These were ancient trees, who had seen much in their many years. Perhaps the eldest of them had stood for centuries. What must they think of him? The young sapling of an invader to their quiet, ponderous peace.  </p><p>“I come from Prince Rhaegar. I bear you no harm.” </p><p>His words echoed through the trees, and for a few moments were met with no response.  </p><p>“Then why do you approach with your sword drawn, ser?” </p><p>Had the trees spoken to him? No. Such was the thought of a child. Trees did not speak, just as much as trees did not see, or think. He was allowing his fear of this place to become irrational, and he would not allow it.  </p><p>The voice had been Northern, he knew that much. It reminded him of the stern and cold tones of the sons of Winterfell. Yet it lacked the power of Brandon Stark. It was somehow weaker, more quavering, now that he heard it up close. He recognised it, of course. It was no sentinel speaking, nor was it an ancient oak, or wisened willow. It was the voice of the Knight of the Laughing Tree.  </p><p>“I ask you forgiveness, ser. I did not mean to worry you.” </p><p>“Worry me you did not, Sword of the Morning.” </p><p>The voice came from behind him, though he did not have the time to turn before he felt the point of a knife at his back. He could hear the breaths of his attacker. They were soft and shallow, not those of a man grown. The steel would do little to him where it was held, but he did not know his attacker’s skill with a blade, so a fight was not worth the risk. Perhaps Rhaegar had been wrong, and this mystery knight had been some bandit, anxious for fame and glory, or some half-mad woods dweller.  </p><p>They spoke too well for that. They did not sound lowborn to him. The accentuations of his chosen words were those of a highborn lordling. </p><p>“You are making a mistake, ser. The prince sent me to save you from the wrath of his father, the king. I am to help you disappear.” </p><p>“Walk.” </p><p>The single word sounded as if it was meant to be spoken with strength, but instead it sounded more like a question than a command. That made him wonder. Perhaps there was reasoning to be had with this attacker after all. Few bandits would be willing to negotiate in this position, not when they could get their hands on a blade as valuable as Dawn... Besides, the mystery knight had sought no monetary reward from the defeated knights. That sounded like no bandit that Arthur had heard of. Come to think of it, it sounded unlike most knights that Arthur knew as well.  </p><p>Still, he obeyed the order, wanting the other party to continue to think they held the control of the situation. His mind being kicked into overdrive helped to dispell much of the anxiousness that he had felt about this place. This swiftly returned as he laid eyes upon their destination.  </p><p>The heart tree of the godswood stood watch over a shallow pool of dark water. The trunk of the weirwood was a pasty white, not the colour of snow, but that of exposed human bone. The roots tangled amongst each other, and spread out across the grove, a network of strength, showing the age of the mighty tree. Upon the trunk of the tree lay a horrific sight, that brought back all the horrors that he had felt when he had first arrived here.  </p><p>The face was twisted, the lips curled into a sadistic smile. Above it, the eyes were a deep, blood red, and in the glint of them he saw joy. The face may have been stuck in time, unchanging, yet he could picture the things that would bring a smile to the face of such a monstrous thing. It sucked the life from him, and before it he fell to his knees, despair ebbing away at his very being. This was it. This was evil.  </p><p>“This is where I took the name. I am the knight of this laughing tree, ser.” </p><p>The deepness of the knight’s voice had softened, though the Northern tones were no less harsh and cold. There was a bitterness to their speech, lacking the joy that most other men found. He supposed that was represented in the Stark words. Winter is coming. </p><p>“Me and my brothers stopped here as we came south. The tree scared some, but to me... It drew me in, my lord. When I decided to shame your southron knights I decided to take it as my mantle. One last victory for the weirwood south of the Neck.” </p><p>His eyes narrowed. Something in his head started to whir, and the identity of the knight started to appear before him. It could not be, surely? </p><p>Yet she stepped into his view. The she-wolf of Winterfell, the daughter of the Warden of the North, Lyanna Stark.  </p><p>Much of the mail and armour she had been wearing before had been cast aside, though she still wore the tightly woven links upon her chest and torso, with boiled Northern leather beneath it. Her hair flowed long, sinking beyond her shoulders, a waterfall of deep brown. Her eyes were narrowed as she glared at him, but he saw the nut-brown of her pupils well enough. She was long of face, but such did not impinge her harsh beauty. She was no delicate flower, like Elia, or highborn beauty, such as Lord Hoster Tully’s daughters, but there was a fierce willfulness, and a wild vision of attractiveness to her. Her breasts were not large, he noticed, and she was skinny and lean, but she must have strength, or else she would not have been able to ride as well as she had.  </p><p>“How did you know I would be here? You say you are from Prince Rhaegar, but you are the king’s man.” </p><p>He had to swallow down much of what he was feeling, looking to the cold ground for inspiration. He noticed that one of the weirwood roots had crept close to him, perhaps desiring to entangle him in its mass. No, it had been there before. He could not succumb to the fear of this place.  </p><p>“I- Your brother. Brandon. He told me the name.” </p><p>Lyanna let loose an exasperated sigh at that, her eyes opening slightly further than before. Perhaps that had helped assuage some of her worry.  </p><p>It was then that he realised that, in his distraction and fear, he had dropped Dawn. The blade had skittered some way from him, out of his reach. She must have realised that, too, or else why reveal herself now? Was it for the heart tree, or did she trust him more than she was pretending? </p><p>“I would not have imagined to find you here, Lady Stark.” </p><p>Lyanna looked down at him strongly. Was that contempt upon her face? For him? For the title he had placed upon her? </p><p>“You would not have found me had I not approached you. And I am no lady. Father would have me be one. He would have me be Robert’s lady. I am no man’s. Not yet.” </p><p>There was a bitterness to the last two words, spat out, as if a curse. Had it been directed to her father, or to Robert Baratheon, the Lord of Storm’s End, and, as the realm knew, her betrothed? </p><p>“Brandon should not have told you of this place. Yet for him to do such a thing he must believe you to be Rhaegar’s, I suppose. That means I can trust you, or so father says.” </p><p>That caught him further by surprise. Lord Rickard had allowed his wild and wilful son and daughter to know of their dealings? The Starks of Winterfell had been one of the first houses to come to Rhaegar for fear of Aerys, and their knowledge of what Rhaegar may be. Some would think Lord Rickard an ambitious man, eager for more power, but Arthur knew that not to be the case. He was fighting another war, as was Rhaegar, and that made them fast friends.  </p><p>“If you do not desire to be lady Stark, then what should I call you?” </p><p>The girl shrugged her shoulders, and still no smile passed across her face. Her scowl was charming, he thought, but he wished to know what joy looked like upon her pleasant features. </p><p>“Most call me Lyanna. Since we are friends now, I suppose you can also.” </p><p>There was an attempt at nonchalance to her words, as if she cared little about how he named her. There was a flicker, just a glimmer, of acceptance between them. He felt comfortable to rise then, no longer held under the sway of the dread he had felt before. Perhaps, for just the briefest of moments, he had felt akin to the souls that had, long ago, been brought her at knifepoint, to lose their life before the laughing weirwood.  </p><p>“If we are such friends then I must congratulate you on your riding. There are not many maids that would be able to unhorse three full-grown knights.” </p><p>For a split-second he saw pride in her eyes, a fierce determination and drive. A twitch of her lips suggested that she was restraining a smile. She thought it best to stay sombre, then, but why was she being so reserved? Had she not said that they were friends? What could she be hiding? </p><p>“I prayed to the gods and they rode beside me. Ned says I am the finest rider in the North. I have never held a lance before. I suppose they guided my arm. You ride well yourself, Ser white-cloak. I did not know that you needed horses in your Dornish mountains.” </p><p>“The sand steeds of Dorne are the swiftest rides in all the kingdoms. I have ridden them all my life.” </p><p>She shrugged again, though some competitiveness had come to her face.  </p><p>“Perhaps, but I doubt they would see through a Northern winter. Our beasts are more sturdy, and sometimes quickness should come second. Sometimes a man should conserve themselves, or else they are spent all too soon. Or so I have heard.” </p><p>She spoke the words with little emoting, though her eyes narrowed some, almost challenging him to deny her innuendo. Instead, it caused him to flush red, and he knew not why. He had never been shy around sex. Why would this girl bring out the maiden in him?  </p><p>“I had hoped it would be you.” </p><p>She blurted the words out suddenly, before seemingly cursing herself and withdrawing from the moment. Upon realising that she could not leave it there, she spoke again.  </p><p>“I mean, I am glad it was you who I get to tell. The flame-haired lord is brusque and stern, and the other white-cloak has dark eyes. Yours are kinder than his. Is it true that you are the finest swordsman in the realm?” </p><p>She seemed to have opened up somewhat since her mistake. Maybe she felt more comfortable in his presence, or perhaps she just felt that the pretense of apathy was not worth maintaining any further. It was welcome for him. He gestured to Dawn, lain upon the ground. Some of the darkness appeared to have dissipated now.  </p><p>“May I?” </p><p>She nodded, and so he took up the blade. It felt natural under his grip, like an extension of his being. He swung it a few times, cutting through the air with deadly precision and speed. Part of it was the perfect balance of Dawn, but further was his own skill, honed through years of practice. He lacked the brute force of Gerold Hightower, or the relentlessness of Barristan the Bold, but for speed he was the finest of the white cloaks. </p><p>“You kill the air well enough, Ser. Were that my brothers you would not find it so easy. What do you intend to do with me, now you know what I have done?” </p><p>He felt that the comment on her brothers may have been a gentle threat. Should he act against her then there would be retribution. He knew not of the capabilities of Eddard Stark, but it was true that the eldest son of Winterfell was fearsome on the battlefield. It was moot. He had no intention of handing her over to Aerys.  </p><p>“I will tell Rhaegar. Then it is done. I would take no joy from seeing you stripped and dragged before the king.” </p><p>Lyanna raised an eyebrow quizically, a gentle motion, but it accentuated her face well.  </p><p>“You would take no joy from that? I doubt that, ser. I see the way you men look at me, do not think elsewise. Your white cloak of forsworn purity does little to conceal those desires.” </p><p>Her words stung him, for some reason, as if she was tarnishing him with the same way she thought of Lord Baratheon, or the knights of Frey. Mayhaps it was because he was unused to having his honour called into question. Still, she took a step forward.  </p><p>“I have heard tales of the great courage and virtue of Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Are you as much a maid as me, ser?” </p><p>He had been chosen for the white cloaks young, committed to celibate service for all his years. Some chose to push that oath aside, but not he. Not yet, anyway. He had wondered what his life may have been like had such not been his choice, had he found himself a wife. Then he would have known a woman’s touch.  </p><p>“A man in battle. A maid in the bedchamber.” </p><p>She was close now, her hand flitted across his breastplate, and to the rim of his cloak, worn heavy around his neck. Never had he known its weight to be so cumbersome. Could he lose it? For her? </p><p>“I have never known a woman.” </p><p>A smile passed upon her face at last, and he realised how much he had been longing for it. It was pleasant, not mocking him exactly, but enjoyment at the control that she had over him in that moment.  </p><p>“Nor have I. I have known no man either. Robert will be my first, I suppose, though the gods know, I shall not be his.” </p><p>She spoke with an enflamed resentment about her betrothed. He had heard plenty of tales of the wanton ways of the storm lord. He had seduced highborn maids and lowly commons alike. He could see why Lyanna would hold hate in her heart for being promised to such a man.  </p><p>“At Winterfell, Old Nan tells us stories of dashing lords and gallant knights, kings with hearts of mercy and justice, and princes bent on chivalry. I have seen none of that since I came south. From your knights to your squires, there is no honour in Harrenhal. Even you, Sword of the Morning, conspire against the king to whom you swore your vows. Are you not bound by loyalty?” </p><p>He had thought long and hard on that question. He had knelt before Aerys and spoken those words, the ones that held him to the white cloak, the ones that forbade him pleasure, in the service of a man wracked by madness. Rhaegar was better, kinder, gentler, but it was not to he that he had bent the knee. When the time came, could he become a kingslayer? Would he be forced to pit his sword against his sworn brothers? Could he kill Ser Jonothor, who had seen him settle in the order when he first joined, or Ser Gerold, who was the stuff of legend? Could he say that he had honour if he did.  </p><p>“I hold duty to the realm as well as the king. To hold to Aerys I would have to betray the other. What is a man to do when his oaths and his vows come into conflict? When he has sworn so many words that he can only keep one by breaking the other?” </p><p>She did not respond for a few moments, absorbing his words and considering them, behind her long, Northern face.  </p><p>“Yet you choose to keep your oath of celibacy. That is a choice, ser. There is not a maid at Harrenhal who would not spread her legs for the Sword of the Morning.” </p><p>She turned away from him. Her hair cascaded past her shoulders, brown and luxorious, rippling as if a waterfall.  </p><p>“My father’s terms for supporting your prince, ser. The Princess Rhaenys will be promised to my youngest brother, Benjen. My other brother, Eddard, will serve at court, as advisor to the king. He will not like it, but it will be so. Money shall be sent to the Wall, to reinforce the castles along it, and it shall also be provided to Bear Island, Last Hearth, and Karhold, for they are the castles most at risk from the north. I have a term of my own, however.” </p><p>She turned to him, fire in her eyes.  </p><p>“I do not wish for Robert to be my first. I do not want him to hold that honour. If your prince agrees to these terms then he should deliver me winter roses. They grow by the tree here.” </p><p>He looked to the roots, some shock clear upon his face. There were indeed bushels of winter roses, pale blue, almost spectral, blooming within the nestles of its twisted network. They were hauntingly beautiful, he thought. He looked up at her, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Lyanna Stark, so young, and yet so fierce and formidable, a true Northern maiden. He was not surprised she had bested three knights, not now that he had spoken to her.  </p><p>“I shall deliver the news to him.” </p><p>Then something happened that he had not expected. A slight blush passed across her pale lips. A sign of the youth she had tried to hide from him? </p><p>“Not all of it was for his ears. The last part... That was just for you, Arthur Dayne.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hi all readers who got this far. </p><p>First of all, thank you for enjoying the series. People's comments and likes really meant a lot as I was writing this. A lot of these plot points and ideas, believe it or not, stem from years ago, for an unfinished fic I wrote under a different name, that focused more on the main story. I thought I would adapt some of them for a series of little mini-series, starting with this one. I hope you liked it!</p><p>This was the last chapter of the Tourney at Harrenhal section, but I will be posting more! I don't really know how this site connects the two, but keep an eye out for whenever this account posts the next set of chapters, if you want to keep reading, of course. Some exciting stuff next time. We will be visiting King's Landing, Winterfell, The Eyrie, Casterly Rock, just to name a few. Some new characters showing up as well. Can stay tuned for Tywin, Rickard Stark, Gregor Clegane, Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon (properly), as well as still focusing on Rhaegar, Arthur, Ashara, Ned, Howland, Lyanna, Benjen etc. Should be good!</p><p>I hope you liked this chapter, and the small series as a whole if you read it all. Thanks! Bye!</p>
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